I'm Coming Undone
by Books In the Blood
Summary: After Sherlock's return, he starts to have flashbacks and nightmares that get increasingly worse. Will he let John help him before he becomes unraveled? Mostly written from Sherlock's perspective. A continuation of my story, "He's Shattered" but can be read by itself.
1. Back on the Roof

**Hi guys! This is my first story from Sherlock's perspective. Let me know what you think :) **

Sherlock and John walked through the crowd that was forming along the police tape at the edge of the sidewalk. Vultures they were, Sherlock mused, looking for any scrap of information they could find. Which, of course, was nothing; the police tape was several feet from the large home and the crime scene was inside the house. John mentioned something about how famous the victim of this crime was; he said something about it being a famous singer, though it wasn't someone Sherlock had ever heard of. That's why John wasn't able to maximize his full brain potential; he was too busy filling his head with useless knowledge like who was famous. Sherlock didn't waste time filling his head with such nonsense.

Sherlock walked through the puddles on the sidewalk and pulled up the police tape, crouching under it, holding it a second behind him for John to walk through. He walked up the steps of the home and into the open door. Several people were already working in the immaculate living room of the deceased celebrity. It was an unusually large amount of people and Sherlock was not particularly pleased about this; the less people there were around the better. Too many people meant too many stupid theories filling his mind up with nonsense; not that he would be swayed by their ridiculous theories but it made it hard to think with that much stupid floating through the air. He would just have to do his best on this one.

Sherlock walked up to Lestrade as John went on to the body in the corner of the room that was mostly obscured by the amount of people in the room. Lestrade seemed pleased to have him here as he caught sight of him. "Ah, Sherlock, glad you're here" he said.

"What have you gotten so far?" Sherlock asked, impatient to get to work.

"Well, it appears to be a suicide" Lestrade said, "He was obviously shot through the mouth and his fingerprints are on the gun that was found just next to his body. His family claims that there is no way that he committed suicide. Not an uncommon plea, but this time they have something; the door appeared to have been forced open last night. Nothing was taken, and there are no other signs that someone else was ever here except for a set of foot partial footprints in the back garden. They don't match the size of the footprints of anyone in the house. Hopefully you can shed some light on it for us."

"No doubt I can" Sherlock said confidently as he turned away from Lestrade and went to the back corner of the room where the body lay by the fireplace. He was sure that no one had even touched on what was really going on here; if they did then he wouldn't be here.

The forensics people moved aside slightly as Sherlock walked over and Sherlock saw John was already examining the body. His body was obscuring the top half of the man, as he examined the no doubt badly damaged head of the victim. John looked over his shoulder, obviously sensing that Sherlock was there and he moved to the side so that Sherlock could do his examination.

But when John moved and Sherlock caught sight of the man lying on the floor, he knew that his eyes deceived him. No, it couldn't be him, it was absolutely impossible. He was dead, long dead, as he had seen with his own eyes. Sherlock rubbed his eyes in an effort to make the young man's image before him change, but when he looked again he still saw the same thing. His mind was surely betraying him….how was this possible?

Much to Sherlock's dismay, his body began to betray him as well. He could hear John's voice distantly call his name, but he found that he couldn't answer him. His mind began to feel unclear, and his vision was getting black at the corners. He felt dizzy and entirely too hot. He tried to tear off his coat but found that his body didn't answer his commands. He was frozen.

He just continued to stare at the man that lay on the ground before him until the scene around him changed around him. No longer was he standing in the living room of a rich and prominent young man, surrounded by police….

_The roof….the wind was blowing coldly around him and it was silent. Except for _him….

_Sherlock's heartbeat loudly against his chest and he felt a pounding in his head. His stomach was churning as Moriarty reached out and clasped his hand with his cold one. It felt like icy steel in his own. The words echoed back in his head, as they had done a thousand times. _

"_As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends, you've got a way out" _

_He hesitated, just for a second, but it was enough, "Well, good luck with that" he said, and in the next second he had place a gun inside his mouth and shot himself. Sherlock felt himself go weak. He felt dizzy, disoriented as he looked at Moriarty's body on the ground before him, blood pouring from his head. This couldn't be…..it simply couldn't. _

_His vision blackened around the edges but he forced himself to stay conscious. The weight of what he had to do fell on him like a ton of bricks and made it difficult to breathe. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…..he had to jump…..falling, falling, falling…_

"Sherlock! Hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen a ghost" John's voice called out to him.

Sherlock blinked quickly and suddenly he wasn't on top of 's anymore, he wasn't with Moriarty; he was at a crime scene, with John and Lestrade. Sherlock looked down at the dead man lying at his feet; he wasn't Moriarty, of course. Moriarty had been dead for over three years now. The man laying here was a totally different person. Sure, he resembled Moriarty in some ways, he was dressed similarly to him, but there was no reason his mind should have perceived him as Moriarty. It was….illogical.

Sherlock felt shaky on his feet. He was vaguely aware that people were staring at him. He wondered what he had done or said that attracted their attention. One second he was fine and the next he was…..seeing things? Surely that wasn't what had happened, and yet, what other explanation was there? He had clearly just seen something that wasn't there. Sherlock had never in his life had something like this happen and it made him…..uncomfortable. Extremely uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, hey, you're freaking me out, say something" John said. He was whispering it to Sherlock, no doubt to be kept out of hearing range of the others that were now staring in his direction. Sherlock's ears were ringing and his equilibrium was off.

"Excuse me" Sherlock said before pushing past officers in the living room and walking out of the house. He walked out the front door of the house and then around to side of the building, away from the crowds. He didn't understand what was happening and he couldn't allow anyone to see him like this. He leaned against the wall and then sank down to a sitting position. He was warm, sweating even, and he ripped his scarf off in a fit, throwing it down on the ground and opening the collar of his coat. He put his head down slightly and began to breathe deeply the cold morning air. Soon, the blackness at the edges of his vision was starting to fade away.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Oh God, John followed him of course. He knew that he shouldn't be surprised. John was always sticking his nose in his business when it didn't concern him. He wished that he would just leave.

"I am fine, John. Go back inside" Sherlock said waving him off. John, stubborn as ever wouldn't leave. Instead he crouched down on the ground so that he was at eye level with Sherlock. "Get out of here John" he snapped.

John was not to be deterred. " I'm not stupid, Sherlock" he said

"Really?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows. Maybe if he insulted John he would get mad and leave. That usually worked; he angered quickly.

John fixed him with a hard stare but ignored the remark. " You're pale as a sheet, sweating, and you were just standing there, staring at nothing for like two minutes. Are you getting sick or something? "

Sherlock scowled. "Of course not" he snapped. "Just needed some fresh air. It was rather stuffy in that house. Too many idiotic people" He maintained his deep breathing, making sure that it was not obvious to John. He was not ill and did not want any more attention brought on him.

"You can tell me, if-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I don't need to tell you anything John" Sherlock said, getting to his feet. He felt slightly off balance at the movement, but quickly recovered. "I'm going back to work" he said. "You might want to do the same. Make some use of yourself and stop standing around prattling like an old woman." And with that he pushed past John and went back into the house. John didn't immediately follow him; good. Maybe if he was angry he would leave Sherlock alone. What had happened was simply a mistake, his body doing something strange. It wasn't going to happen again and he wasn't going to discuss it.


	2. The Doctor Worries

John and Sherlock sat in the cab on the way home, silent. John was uncomfortable in the silence, mostly because he knew something was bothering Sherlock and yet he refused to talk. He wouldn't even look at John.

By the time that he had gotten back in the house, Sherlock was already hot on the trail, supposedly back to his old self. He had dazzled everyone by solving the case in under an hour by identifying a few traces of obscure, exotic tobacco ash that the young man's chauffeur was known to smoke. More incrementing was that the man had fled town and they now had a warrant out for his arrest.

But though Sherlock was on form, John knew something was wrong. His stomach dropped when he thought about the way that Sherlock's face turned deadly pale, and his eyes distant and vacant. It was a look that he had seen many times in the eyes of his friends, and also one he knew that he had had on his own face at times. Flashbacks.

Of course Sherlock would never admit it and John really hoped that he was wrong. He didn't want Sherlock to have to go through that. John remembered his own experiences from when he returned from the war; the flashbacks that seemed as real as the events going on around him, the crippling fear and sense of dread, the nightmares.

Sherlock no doubt had plenty of reasons to have flashbacks. He had never discussed the events of the past three years with John but he knew that they had been traumatic. He remembered the wounds that Sherlock had and his unwillingness to discuss them. He had even found Sherlock having a nightmare once, shortly after he returned. It had never happened again, so he assumed that Sherlock was okay. But maybe he wasn't.

When the cab stopped, Sherlock got out and quickly walked inside while John was paying the cabbie. By the time that he got into the house, Sherlock was sitting in his chair with a fresh fire blazing in the fireplace. He still had his coat on and his expression was vacant as he stared into the flames. It wasn't normal, not even for Sherlock.

Knowing better than to push him, John went to take a shower. When he got out, Sherlock appeared to not have moved an inch, still staring into the flames, coat still on, fingertips together. John hoped that he simply was in his mind palace, thinking over the case and not what had happened. John went to the kitchen to look for something to get for dinner. He called out to Sherlock to ask if he wanted something; no response. That wasn't unusual, in fact it was a common occurrence that Sherlock would be silent for days or just ignore John when he didn't want to talk. But right now it troubled John.

John fixed some dinner and went to the living room to eat in front of the TV. Normally, Sherlock would nag at him for this, especially if he was trying to think. But there was no response at all. When John finished his dinner he finally decided to break the silence.

"Pretty amazing, what you did at that crime scene today" he said off handily. Sherlock though he might not seem like it, loved compliments. He would rarely ignore John when he said that he did something well.

And this was no exception. " I simply saw what everyone else ignored" he said. "It was right in front of your faces"

He spoke but he didn't move from his frozen position. John wondered how he sat that long without getting stiff. "Well really, those traces of ash were minuscule. I have no idea how you saw them" he said.

"You saw them just like I did, but you didn't observe them. As usual" Sherlock said.

Sherlock went distant again and John thought about trying to engage him again, but thought better of it. He had spoken, so that was a good step for now. If he was speaking, even if it was just a little bit, then he was probably okay. John really wanted to press him on the issue of his episode earlier but knew that it would do no good. Sherlock didn't talk about anything unless he wanted to.

A few hours later when John went to bed, Sherlock was still sitting by the fire like he had been when they had returned. John wanted to say something, but instead he just muttered, "Goodnight" to which Sherlock ignored.

….

Sherlock stood from his seat by the fire and stretched. His muscles creaked in protest and he wondered how long he had been sitting. He noticed that it was dark in the flat and he when he called John's name, he didn't answer. He must have already gone to bed.

Sherlock suddenly felt warm and he took his coat off. He'd been alarmed by what had happened at the crime scene; his mind betraying him was one thing that he couldn't accept. It had never happened to him before; when arriving home, he had instantly dove into his mind palace to order and organize his mind. He did feel better now; after the event his mind had felt cluttered and hazy but now it felt more like it should; clear and ordered.

Though he was tired. He couldn't recall the last time that he had slept and since there was no work to do and John was asleep, he saw no reason to not relax for a few hours.

Sherlock went to his room and put his pyjamas on before pulling back the covers and getting under them. He willed his mind to stop and was for once, quickly off to sleep.

…

_The wind howled in Sherlock's ears and he looked around. He was on a roof, THE roof. He quickly looked around, knowing who he would see. _

_Moriarty stood at the other end of the building, and arrogantly began to walk towards him. _

_Moriarty took his time walking to Sherlock; when he got close he could see that Moriarty was smiling, shaking his head. "Ah, Sherlock, I expected a lot better than this….how disappointing" _

_"I beat you didn't I?" Sherlock asked. "You thought you had ensured my death….turns out you missed something" _

_Moriarty smiled broadly and made a tisking noise. " You may be alive now….but I know what keeps you alive, what keeps that hearting beating" he said, pointing his finger at Sherlock's chest. _

_"What would you know about the heart?" Sherlock asked "You obviously don't have one"_

_Moriarty laughed. " But you obviously do….and there it is" Moriarty turned around and pointed to something Sherlock hadn't seen before. _

_John…_

_Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. John was sitting in a chair a few feet away, his hands tied. He had a determined look on his face, but Sherlock could see the slight tremor in his hands; he was scared. Sherlock allowed himself one second of fear, before turning to look Moriarty in the eye. _

_" You've tried this before….look how that worked out for you" Sherlock said. "You were the one that ended up dead while John is still alive"  
_

_"Its only a matter of time"" Moriarty said with surety. "See, you thought that I was always the most dangerous thing that could happen to him. When it turns out that YOU are" _

_"I made sure you were dead…..I let John think for three years that I was dead just to protect him while I hunted down each and everyone one of your men" Sherlock snarled at Moriarty. "So believe me when I say I did everything possible to protect him." _

_Moriarty just laughed. In what seemed like less than a second, he pulled out a gun and shot John in the chest. " You'll be the death of him Sherlock" he said. _

_Sherlock ran over to John's limp form on the ground, reeling from seeing the sight of Moriarty shooting him. He is alive, he's alive….._

_Sherlock kneeled next to John, looking at the gaping wound on his chest, quickly staining his shirt with red. His eyes were open and looking at Sherlock. "Dear God, John, listen, you're going to be okay" he assured him, biting down the tightness in his throat burning in his eyes. _

_A tear trickled out of John's eye. "Sherlock, how could you? I thought I could trust you" he said, betrayal heavy in his voice. _

_"What? What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked. _

_John pointed weakly to Sherlock's hand, and when Sherlock looked down, a gun was in his hand. The one that had shot John. "No, this wasn't me, it was him" Sherlock insisted. _

_"Who?" John asked in confusion. Sherlock looked wildly around, searching the rooftop for Moriarty. But he wasn't anywhere to be seen. _

_When Sherlock turned back to John, his breath caught in his throat. John was lying still, pale, dead….._

_He couldn't stop the scream from escaping his throat…._


	3. Night Terrors

Sherlock's throat burned and he was vaguely aware that he must have been screaming a while. Even though he thought this, he didn't try to stop the raspy sound. Sherlock kept his eyes tightly shut, reaching out. Something warm and comforting met his face, and he tried to burrow into it. A first he thought it was a blanket, but then he spoke.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, its okay!" John called to him. "You're awake now, you're fine"

Sherlock opened his eyes and realized that he was sitting up in bed, face pressed up against John's shirt. He was warm, his heart beating strongly beneath Sherlock's cheek. He was alive…..

"Sherlock, calm down. You're okay" John said soothingly. He placed a hand on Sherlock's back, and Sherlock flinched.

Sherlock pushed John away and scrambled to get up. John was obviously confused, but Sherlock was already running. "Hey, Sherlock, where are you going?" he called.

But Sherlock didn't stop. He ran all the way to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He leaned up against the door, and sank down to the floor. His hands were shaking as he ran them through his sweaty hair. He couldn't believe the way that his transport was betraying him; he was shaky, his heart was racing, eyes burning but he refused to give in to something ridiculous as tears over something that was not real.

There was a knock at the door and he heard John's voice just behind him. "Sherlock, are you okay? Please come out of there."

Sherlock didn't answer; he wasn't sure he could trust his voice at the moment to not betray him as well.

"Listen, you don't have to talk to me about it" John said, "But I wish you'd at least come out, so I know you're okay"

Sherlock pressed his hands against his ears and put his head down. He didn't know what was happening to him. He didn't have dreams, not ever. And certainly not nightmares. And if he did have nightmares, they didn't seem so real. John's lifeless corpse laying in front of him…..it had seemed so real. In the moment of it, he actually though that it was real. His mind had been tricked….

This was not okay.

"Please, Sherlock" John said. It almost sounded like he was begging. He was worried; he didn't need to be.

"Go back to bed, John." Sherlock said, keeping his voice calm and even. "I am fine"

"Okay, if you're sure" John said, hesitantly.

John moved around and Sherlock was sure that he thought that he had fooled Sherlock, but it wasn't that simple. Sherlock knew he was waiting outside the door, ready to ambush him with 'talking about it' as soon as he came out. Well, that wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock sat down on the floor, making himself more comfortable. He could wait here a lot longer than John. Eventually he would get tired of waiting and would go back to bed. Until then, Sherlock would stay in here.

Sherlock closed his eyes and stilled his mind, willing it to go back to its mind palace. Obviously his attempts to order his mind earlier had not been sufficient and he needed to order it again. This time, it would work.

…..

John jerked awake and looked around. It was still dark in the bedroom and when he looked at the clock the numbers 4:34 flashed at him. He felt his heart racing, as if he was on alert and he couldn't image why he felt so jumpy at having just woken up. He hadn't been having a nightmare, so it didn't make any sense. But he didn't have to wonder long because just at that moment he heard screaming. Sherlock screaming.

It was an awful, heart wrenching scream that made John's blood turn cold. He was instantly on his feet and running towards Sherlock's room. When he got to Sherlock's room he found him sitting up in bed, screaming at the top of his lungs. Night terrors.

John rushed over and sat in front of Sherlock, hesitant to scare him, but wanting to do anything to free him from his mental prison. "Sherlock, Sherlock, wake up" he called out gently as he took one of Sherlock's arms and shook it gently. Sherlock jumped slightly, but stopped screaming. His eyes were clenched tightly, terror written on his face as he buried his face in John's chest. He was taken aback slightly by the force at which Sherlock came at him. He pressed his face deeper into his shirt, grabbing him tightly.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, it's okay!" John said. "You're awake now, you're fine".

Sherlock was breathing heavily and didn't seem to be calming down. He was covered in sweat. "Sherlock, calm down. You're okay" John said soothingly. He put his hand down on Sherlock's back to reassure him, but Sherlock flinched under his hand when he touched him. Within two seconds Sherlock was pushing John away and running away.

"Hey, Sherlock, where are you going?" he called out, in vain, knowing he wouldn't answer. He had let his hurt show for a second and now he was gone.

John got up and walked to the bathroom where Sherlock had locked himself in. He tried to get him to come out, but of course he wouldn't. He stayed outside the bathroom for a long time, hoping that he would eventually give up and come out. But no such luck.

John was a little worried about his friend. His episode earlier, combined with his zombie like state all evening now combined with a terrible nightmare was not normal. It wasn't normal at all and John feared that Sherlock was really suffering, and he feared that it was just beginning.

After a long time John gave up and went back to bed. But he didn't sleep, not until he began to see soft pink light come in the windows.

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	4. River of Red

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Sherlock's mind wouldn't quiet. He just kept picturing John, over and over again, pale and lifeless, a gun in his hand. Sherlock shook his head wildly. Even a visit to the mind palace couldn't help make it go away. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and pulled at it slightly. This was ridiculous; it had been a dream, fake. It wasn't real. John was alive and well; to be upset was a waste of time. And the idea that he would kill John? Totally absurd. Yet still, his mind would not be still.

Once Sherlock was sure that John had given up and went to bed, he left the bathroom and went to his bedroom. He went to his closet and pulled at one of the boards in the back until it opened. He pulled an old pack of cigarettes out of it; it was his special hiding place, one of the few places that John had not discovered when he'd hidden things more dangerous than cigarettes. Though those things were certainly a temptation now, he knew better than to get involved in that again.

He sat back on his bed and pulled one of the cigarettes out of the package, noticing his shaking hands. He lit the cigarette and breathed in deeply, feeling calmer already as the smoke filled his lungs. He hadn't smoked in a very long time, a fact which he was proud of. But now, it just felt _good. _John was going to kill him, not that he cared.

Sherlock grew calmer with each cigarette that he pulled out of the pack. Gradually, his room was filled with light as the sun came up and peaked through the curtains. His hands weren't shaking anymore, his heart rate was down; this was better. He'd had a bit of a scare, but of course he was okay now. He was fine.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned to look at John standing in the doorway of his room. "One usually knocks when entering someone's bedroom" he said.

That didn't deter John from coming further into the room and waving at the smoke in the room. "What happened to quitting?" he asked.

Sherlock took a long drag off the cigarette and blew it, somewhat on purpose, in John's direction. "I did quit" he said.

"Doesn't look like it" John said "The whole flat is filled with smoke" John noticed the empty pack of cigarettes on Sherlock's bed and picked them up. "Oh great, did you smoke the whole thing? Do you have any idea what you're doing to yourself?"

Sherlock blew in John's direction, this time entirely on purpose. John could really be annoying sometimes. "You do a lot more damage to yourself by worrying so much. You're setting yourself up for a chance of an early heart attack"

"And you're not?" John asked. He seemed angry, though Sherlock wasn't sure why. Why should he care how much he smoked?

John's face softened. "Listen, I'm just wondering if you're okay" he said softly. "You know, after yesterday."

Sherlock jumped off the bed, finishing the last of the cigarette. "Of course. I do believe your words yesterday were "amazing"" he said, giving John a wide smile before disappearing out the door. He knew that John was referring to his unpleasant episodes yesterday but he refused to acknowledge this. He wasn't going to discuss it.

He went to the door and picked up the paper off the stoop, taking it back to his chair and beginning to flip through it. He was aware that John was in the room and staring at him. He tried to ignore him, but of course John made that impossible. " You know what I mean," he said, "After last night, I thought you might-"

"John, I'm fine" Sherlock said with confidence. "Really, stop worrying. And, while you're at it, make us some tea"

He watched John scowl at him out of the corner of his eye but he did actually go into the kitchen and begin to make the tea. Good; he really was fine and he'd be even better if John would just stop talking about what had happened.

Sherlock looked through the paper, which was exceedingly dull today, before tossing it on the ground. John came into the room with two tea cups, handing one to Sherlock, before sitting his own by his chair. He went back to the kitchen and came back with some toast on a plate. "Want some?" John asked.

"No" Sherlock said, sipping his tea.

"You didn't eat anything yesterday" John said.

"Good deduction" Sherlock said, feeling annoyance rise in him. "You pay alarming attention to my habits"

"You have too" John observed, taking a bite of his toast.

"I paid attention to your habits because you were ill. I am not" Sherlock said. He didn't like to think about what had happened to John. Sure he was okay now, but thinking about the accident, how sick he'd been….it was not pleasant. He had hovered over John because he had to get well.

Sherlock finished his tea and then got up, walking to the bedroom. He changed his clothes and came back into the living room. John was in the kitchen putting up his dishes and when he turned around and saw Sherlock fully dressed he said, "Where are you going?"

"To St. Bart's. I told Molly yesterday that I would assist her in an autopsy she was doing today. Turns out the killer drained the victim of all his blood, but kept the blood. She wants me to see if I can see why the killer would drain the blood but not dispose of it" Sherlock said. He could see John open his mouth to say something, mostly likely to say that he was going, but Sherlock turned and left the flat before he could.

….

Interesting, it was very interesting. Sherlock studied the corpse in front of him; the only wounds on the man were two small holes on his neck, almost like a supposed "vampire" wound, though he could tell of course that it was not teeth that made the wound.

"The holes were made by a small knife" Sherlock said as he studied the holes. "But the killer worked carefully to make them appear to be tooth marks. So, a ritual of some sort" he put his magnifying glass down. "Can I see the blood samples?"

Molly nodded as she scrambled over to the cooler. She placed a couple of jars on the examine table beside the body. "You really think that you'll be able to figure out why they drained out the blood by studying it?" she asked skeptically.

Sherlock smiled. "I'm almost sure of it" he said. He was almost positive that there would be something in the man's blood that would be very telling as to the cause of his death.

Sherlock unscrewed the top off one of the jars and was beginning to set up a small sample to look at beneath the microscope while Molly continued to study the corpse. Sherlock was just pondering what a small space it was for the two of them to be working in when he heard something smash against the floor and heard Molly curse under her breath. Sherlock rolled his eyes and was about to chide Molly for her carelessness when he saw on the floor, blood….lots of blood.

Sherlock stared at the blood and began to feel his body do strange things; his vision was beginning to blacken and he felt dizzy. Sherlock shook his head angrily; he was not going to get faint at the sight of blood, that was utterly ridiculous.

But there was so much of it…..Sherlock tried to turn away from it and continue working, but he found that even when he wasn't looking at it, his body continued to do strange things. He realized, with horror that he was beginning to experience the same things that he had yesterday at the crime scene. He was still dizzy, even though he was breathing deeply and looking anywhere but the blood. He was glad that Molly was too busy cleaning up the spill to notice the blood draining from his face and his desperate attempts to clear his eyes. He rubbed and rubbed but he felt himself being pulled to another place…..


	5. First Kill

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_Sherlock had tracked him all day; he knew exactly where he was going. Sherlock slid down the alley behind the man, careful of every move, careful to not make any noise. If he lost him now, he might not be able to find him again until it was too late and that was not an option. _

_It was the first of Moriarty's men that he had found. It had been a mere few weeks since he had jumped off the roof of 's and he was working tirelessly to get rid of the men who had put him in this awful position. Already he was tired of looking over his shoulder, wondering about every sound that he heard. He was glad that the man in front of him, who obviously believed Sherlock to be dead, was not so cautious. He walked toward Baker Street carefully, but not so carefully that he noticed Sherlock had been following him for an hour. _

_When they turned the corner, walking down the alley behind 221B, Sherlock knew that he would soon have to make his move. The man in front of him crept toward the back door of the flat, hand on his gun. For a split second he saw terrible images flash through his brain; John shot, John dead. Never being able to return to the home that he had once shared with the doctor. Blood, John, pale face…..seeing red…_

_Sherlock charged out of his hiding place behind the bins and grabbed the man from behind. He slammed the man to the ground, throwing his gun from his hand. The gun slide across the alley, and Sherlock blocked the attempts of the man to grab him. The criminal's hand slid away from Sherlock's, just for a second, but it was enough. He pulled out a knife and stabbed at Sherlock. Sherlock blocked the knife, pushing the man's arm back, but he was not easily deterred. He swiped at Sherlock again, getting within an inch of his face. Sherlock's heart beat out of his chest as he caught the knife in the last second, pushing it back. He put all his strength behind the knife, pushing it down towards the man's throat. When the metal of the blade was touching the man's neck, he looked up at Sherlock and sneered. " Well, if you're going to do it, just do it" he said. " You'll end up dead anyway….someone else will get you. Get your little pet too" _

_Sherlock felt anger rise up inside of him. " What do you want with John" Sherlock demanded, hiding most of the emotion in his voice successfully. " He's done nothing" _

_"You killed _him" _the man said, emotion flashing in his eyes for a second; anger? Love? Reverence? "You killed him and whether you were dead or not, I was going to have my revenge even it had to be to your corpse. "he spat " He'll end up dead you know….and you'll be the reason. You think all of Moriarty's men will allow him to live?"_

_Sherlock felt anger rising up in him like a black cloud. "I will make sure he lives" he said certainly. _

_The man laughed. " Good luck with that" he said, "You haven't the faintest idea of what is going on, you don't…._

_The man's words drowned out as Sherlock's anger rose until it was all consuming. Sherlock couldn't explain what he had experienced next except to say that he lost himself. He had never experienced something like this yet in his life and he was yet to experience it again. _

_His arms slammed up and down in a furry, all he could see nothing but red. He could hear nothing, see nothing, could only feel anger and the threat of anger as he slashed. He didn't know how long this went on, but eventually his vision cleared as he arms burned from excursion. _

_When Sherlock looked down at his hands he saw red wetness; blood. His hands were covered in the stuff. He looked at the knife in his hand that was also covered. With a sick feeling in his stomach Sherlock looked down at the ground to the man lying there. Blood, so much blood; the man was completely massacred. _

_The knife slipped from Sherlock's bloody hands as he fell back on the pavement in horror. He had killed the man, violently and without even thinking about it. Sherlock's stomach churned and he swallowed rapidity to keep from vomiting. His hands shook and he looked around in a fury, trying to figure out that he was going to do. He had never been on this side of the law and Sherlock now found himself thinking about how he was going to get rid of the body. How could he have done this? Sherlock wiped his bloodied hands on his already splattered shirt and willed himself to think. _

_He had been about to kill John, and that was unacceptable. The man deserved to die, he was a criminal. But Sherlock had killed him, Sherlock had murdered him. That's why he was so covered in blood….._

"Are you alright?" Molly asked gently, fixing Sherlock with a worried stare.

Sherlock's eyes adjusted to the here and now; somehow he was now sitting in the floor of the morgue by the table that he had been working at. His body felt weak and shaky; he felt sick at his stomach. The images had been so real; they were just a memory but he had seen them with their own eyes as if they were as real as Molly standing by him. The feelings that he had experienced at the time of the memory were just as real too; he felt them now just like he felt them then. Sherlock couldn't let Molly know something was wrong with him; it was bad enough to have John know he wasn't entirely well but other people were a matter entirely different.

Sherlock jumped up quickly, ignoring the loss of vertigo and the queasiness that he feeling. "Of course I'm fine" he said.

"You look a bit pale" Molly said fretingly. " Maybe you should sit down"

Sherlock chuckled; it was the fakest laugh he'd ever produced. " You worry too much Molly, really you shouldn't. I just need a bit of air, if you'll excuse me" he said as he made his way for the door.

He was glad when he made it out of the morgue and through the doors of the hospital. The air outside was cool and it calmed him. He deiced to not get a cab in favor of walking; he needed to clear his head, needed to think. He didn't know why any of this was happening but it was beginning to be upsetting. He couldn't allow anything to stand in the way of his work, and these….visions?...were beginning to do just that.

…..

John was surprised when his phone rang and he saw Molly's number. Something must be up.

"Hello Molly, what's up?" he asked.

" Hey John, uh….I was just calling because I think maybe Sherlock is sick or something" Molly said.

John felt a sense of foreboding. " What do you mean?"

"Well, we were in the lab and I went to clean something up, when I turned around Sherlock was just sitting there on the floor" Molly said, " He was really pale and when I asked him if he was okay he just left really quick. Maybe you should check on him?"

John felt a drop in his stomach. "Thanks for letting me know. And don't worry, I'm sure he's fine" he lied as he hung up. John tried to call Sherlock but of course he didn't answer. He sighed as he put the phone down and resigned himself to sit and worry until Sherlock came home.


	6. Scars

Sherlock walked for a long time; he eventually made his way to the park. Since it was so cold there weren't many people out and Sherlock was glad about this. He needed to be alone to think and he didn't want to go back to the flat because he knew that John would be there and probably make it difficult to think. He'd hover and talk and it would be too much. As it was he still bothering him; he had tried to call him twice and left him a text.

Are you okay? Molly said you weren't feeling well-JW

Great, Sherlock thought. He hadn't been able to persuade Molly that he had been okay and even worse, she had gone and said something to John about it. John was no doubt going to nag him about it when he got home.

Sherlock sat down on a bench in a deserted part of the park and tried to get himself together before making his way home. He hadn't thought about that man and what had happened in that alley for three years; he actively tried to not think about the things that he had done while he'd been gone. They were not pleasant memories and they were best left alone. So why were they forcing their self upon him now? He had no idea. But it was affecting his mind and body and he had to do something about it.

When Sherlock was feeling steady on his feet and not so sick at his stomach, he got up and made his way back to 221B. John was sitting in his armchair reading a book when he entered; or rather he had been reading until he heard the door open, at which point he'd stopped reading and began to listen for him like a hawk. Sherlock groaned inwardly; that meant that he was waiting for him, that he was definitely going to say something.

Sherlock came into the living room, tossing his coat onto the couch before quickly making a beeline for his bedroom. He averted his eyes, looking anywhere but at John. Maybe if I don't look at him, he'll forget…..

"Hey, Sherlock" John called out. "Wait"

Sherlock groaned inside. No, of course he couldn't be that lucky. He turned slowly around face John, putting a blank look on his face. " What?" he asked casually.

"Are you alright?" John asked. "Molly said that you seemed like something was wrong at the hospital."

Sherlock produced another of his fake laughs. " Ah, you know how Molly; chronic worrier. I told her I was just going to get some air and she acted like I was going to pass out or something."

John looked at Sherlock, studying him, trying to figure out if he was telling the truth. He hated when John did that. With other people it was easier to fool them; with John it was a lot harder. " So nothing happened?" he asked skeptically.

"No, of course not" Sherlock said.

"Well, then why didn't you go back? You were right in the middle of something" John said "You never leave in the middle of your work."

Sherlock's stomach fell like a stone; he had _forgotten. _He had actually forgotten about the body and helping Molly with it. His vision was so disturbing that he had actually forgotten about what he was doing. It was….irresponsible. And that was something that he certainly was not.

"I'll get to it in my own time" Sherlock spat at John. "God, you're not my mother, just leave me alone" he stalked loudly out of the room and slammed his bedroom door behind him, locking it. He knew his response was not enough to throw John off the sent that something had happened but at least if he didn't have to be around him, he didn't have to talk to him.

Sherlock flopped heavily back on his bed and pulled a package of cigarettes out of his pocket. When he had smoked this morning he really hadn't been planning to make some habit out of it again. But on the way home the idea of a cigarette sounded so good. Something to calm his…nerves.

Sherlock breathed in the smoke with a sigh. He let it slowly out of his mouth and watched it fill the room. No doubt John would be yelling at him about this any minuet but he didn't care. He needed something to calm himself down. These visions and their effect on his work performance were very troubling.

…

John tried to not worry about Sherlock; after all, he wasn't going to talk to him, so it really was just a waste of time. But, of course that wasn't possible. Sherlock stayed locked in his room the rest of the day and didn't say a word to him. John offered him dinner which he ignored; John wasn't surprised but it made two solid days that he had eaten anything and that bothered John. Sherlock wouldn't even take tea when John offered it to him which was even more troubling. Not to mention the fact that he could smell the cloud of smoke that was filling Sherlock's room; he was smoking again.

John knew that something was wrong but it wouldn't do any good talking to Sherlock unless he wanted to talk. John went to bed that night resigned to leaving Sherlock alone. But as he lay in the dark in bed he found that sleep eluded him. He kept thinking about how he had had flashbacks and nightmares after he had returned from Afghanistan. It was not a pleasant experience and the only thing that made it any better was talking about it. When he bottled up his feelings, that's when the nightmares had gotten worse. He still had nightmares occasionally, but it wasn't often and they weren't as bad as they had been.

John tried to sleep for a long time, but after a while he gave up. He got out of bed and made his way to Sherlock's room, even though he knew that he would probably yell at him. John knocked on Sherlock's door and, as he expected, there was no response. Not really caring what he would say or do, John tried to open the door and was surprised when it opened easily. John popped his head in and was surprised to see Sherlock actually asleep. Passed out was more accurate; he was sitting up in bed entirely clothed, a smoking cigarette still sitting on the nightstand. It was obvious that he had not been intending to sleep but had just drifted off. John honestly didn't know how he could breathe with so much smoke in the room, and he opened a window in an effort to get rid of some of the smoke. Since it was cold he didn't leave it open long; he closed the window and then left Sherlock's room. It was odd for Sherlock to sleep two days in a row; no doubt he was drained mentally. John only hoped that Sherlock was spared from nightmares tonight and could get a good night's sleep.

…

_Sherlock could hardly breathe and his hands shook as he tried to get the key card in the hotel door. It took several tries before his shaky hands could get it in and open the door. As he held his side, he could feel wetness soaking through his coat as he began to get dizzy. He closed the door behind him, glad that now he could collapse and not have to hide the blood that was pouring out of him. _

_He fell to the ground, allowing himself a second to give in to the room spinning. He wanted to give into the darkness that was coming at the fringes of his vision but he knew that could mean bleeding out and he couldn't take that chance. He used the bed to pull himself up off the floor and crawled to the bathroom. He took off his shirt to examine the damage. The sight of it was almost too much when combined with the blood loss; he didn't feel that much pain and he knew that could mean that shock was setting in. _

_Sherlock had never wished that he could go to a hospital but right now he did; the one time that he couldn't. He couldn't risk being seen or recognized especially this close to London. With hesitation and nausea beginning to roll in his stomach, he pulled out his pocket knife to pry out the three bullets that were lodged in him. Thankfully they were in non-critical spots. _

_Sherlock gritted his teeth as he worked the bullets out. It took all the strength that he could muster to keep himself conscious but somehow he managed by pure will. The pain and shock of it was enough that after the first bullet came out he vomited, but he stayed awake and that was the important part. With shaking hands he managed to get the other two bullets out. The metal clanged into the sink that was stained with red; Sherlock fell onto the bathroom floor, holding a towel tightly to his side to stop the blood. He pressed down on the towel with all the strength that he could manage until the blood stopped flowing from him. _

_Sherlock sighed in relief when he saw the blood had stopped. Finally, he allowed himself to drop off into unconsciousness…._

**As always, please review and let me know what you think! thanks for reading! **


	7. I'm Scared

**Thanks to all who have followed and read my story. Please review :)**

_Trigger Warning: Vague reference to self-harm _

Sherlock jerked out of his sleep with violent force, falling forward from his sitting position. He gasped for air and his heart was hammering out of his chest. He was given just enough time by his body to register the sick feeling in his stomach to run to the bathroom before becoming sick. As he vomited into the toilet, his body began to shake and sweat dotted his brow. When his stomach calmed he sat down on the bathroom floor, leaning up against the wall. His stomach, though empty now, burned painfully. He was shivering and his fingers shook as he pulled up his shirt to view the scars that crossed his chest where the bullets had been. He ran his fingers along the scars, reassuring himself that he was okay. It had been several months ago that he had acquired the scars, but the dream had made it seem like it had just happened.

Sherlock put his head on his knees and breathed in deeply. His stomach burned like it had hot coals in it and he felt feverish. He was just glad that John was not awake to see him this way; something was wrong. He couldn't admit it to anyone but he knew that he wasn't himself. His mind was betraying him slowly and now his body was quickly following suit.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his stomach and laid his head back. His stomach continued to burn and he didn't trust it enough to leave the bathroom. He closed his eyes and tried to rest; despite the fact that he had just been asleep he still felt so tired. He tried to resist the pull of fatigue but he felt that for once he couldn't.

…

John awoke the next morning to silence in the flat. Sunlight was coming in his window and John listened for any sound but didn't find anything. Well, at least Sherlock hadn't had any nightmares, he mused.

John got out of bed and made his way groggily to the bathroom. John was surprised to see the light was on and the door cracked. John knocked lightly on the door. "Sherlock? You in there?" he called out. There was no response. John pushed the door open cautiously and looked in. He found Sherlock sitting on the floor of the bathroom, head tilted back asleep. John wondered how long he had been here.

John leaned down and shook Sherlock's shoulder gently. He jerked awake and looked at John groggily. He seemed confused at first but then quickly recovered. He gave John an annoyed look. "Don't you knock before you come in?" he asked.

"I did, you were asleep" John said. " Are you okay? Are you sick?"

"No, of course not" Sherlock said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Then why were asleep on the bathroom floor?" John asked

Sherlock's eyes darted around. "I was tired" he said.

"Sherlock that doesn't make a bit of sense" john said. "You're starting to freak me out. I think you really should see a doctor or something."

Sherlock smiled. "I don't need a doctor, I've got you" he said pleasantly. He put a hand on John's shoulder. "Now, if you don't mind, I really need to take a shower" he gave John's shoulder a gentle shove towards the door. John took the hint and left the bathroom. He heard the quick click of the lock the second that the door shut and John knew Sherlock was lying out his teeth.

…..

Sherlock stood under the water of the shower, not moving, just allowing the hot water to hit his head and drip off where it would. It felt a little bit better, to at least get warm; he had had a pervasive chill ever since he had woken from his nightmare last night. But the heat from the water didn't change much else other than his physical state of being cold; it didn't change the feeling of chilling he had inside at the way that he was becoming unraveled. The mere thought of such a thing terrified him; his mind, his deductions were everything. If he didn't have them what did he have?

Sherlock's stomach continued to burn and have stabbing pains and he could feel his fingers begin to shake as he ran them through his wet hair; he really needed a cigarette. Or a few.

He stayed under the water until it began to turn cold. When it was icy on his now burning skin he finally decided to get out from under the water. He dried and put on his clothes, doing his best to rid himself of the thoughts that something was wrong. The things he had been seeing were memories; he had to have mastery over them in order for them to go away. He had to be in control.

John was puttering around in the kitchen when Sherlock entered the living room; he ignored him and went to his room to get his cigarettes and stop by the front door to get the paper. He lit a cigarette and began to suck in the smoke slowly as he took the paper to his chair. He figured that it would take John about 5 seconds to start whining about the smoke. Again. 5….4….3…2….

"Are you smoking again?" John called from the kitchen irritably.

Sherlock smiled. Good, John was going to get angry. It was the perfect distraction he needed to get him away from thinking about Sherlock's mental state. "Yes, and?" he called out pleasantly from the living room. Sherlock heard muttered curses as John got angry in the kitchen but he didn't bother Sherlock further. It was a few more minutes before John came into the living room again, carrying tea and a few biscuits. He tried to give the plate of biscuits to Sherlock; he looked at them with disgust. His stomach still burned like it was on fire. There was no way that he could or would eat them. "No thanks" he said coolly.

John scowled. "You need to eat something" he said, "It's been days"

"Thanks for the concern but really I'm not hungry" Sherlock said, not looking at John. It was not uncommon for Sherlock to go days without eating. Why should it warrant concern now? Sherlock knew that John was still worried about his memories and nightmares but he really didn't need to be. It wasn't his concern.

Anger, annoyance and concern passed over John's face all at the same time, but he didn't say anything. He sat down and ate in silence. Sherlock looked over the paper, putting it down only when his phone buzzed, signaling a text message. It was Molly:

If you're feeling better, could you help me finish this autopsy?

Sherlock sent a quick reply: Of course, I feel fine. I'll be there in a little bit.

Sherlock sat back in his chair, his stomach twisting in pain; it was all that he could do to keep from holding his arms around his middle. He didn't want John to know how he was feeling. At the thought of finishing the autopsy, his stomach hurt, his heart rate increased; he was actually feeling….scared? Sherlock looked down at the floor, anywhere but at John. If he looked at John he might see what he was feeling and that wasn't a possibility. Sherlock knew logically that he had no reason to be afraid; it was just an autopsy like he had done dozens of times. But when he thought about what had happened yesterday, the memory that had been triggered by the blood that he seen, he felt….terrified If he went back there, he might have a similar incident and he didn't know if he could handle another flashback like that. The thought that he was scared of this was enough to make him really worried about himself. Maybe he wasn't in control after all.

"Are you awake over there?" John called out to Sherlock. Sherlock jerked his attention to the doctor. He had the feeling that john must have been talking and he wasn't paying attention.

"Yes, of course" Sherlock said. "I just wasn't listening"

John rolled his eyes but continued with what he was going to say. "Are you going back to St. Bart's today?" he asked. "You know to finish what you started yesterday"

Sherlock disregarded the fact that he had completely forgot about what he was doing yesterday. "Obviously, I wouldn't just leave work undone. I do things on my own time table" he said with some venom behind it before getting out of the chair and walking to his bedroom.

He shut the bedroom door behind him and locked it before sinking down to the ground and putting his hands to his head. His hands shook; he didn't have any more cigarettes. He needed to calm down; the feeling of fear was closing in on him and threatening to strangle him. His mind hadn't felt this out of control in years; he was always in control.

Sherlock pulled the sleeve of his dressing gown up and ran his finger over the old, small scars that were left on his arm, barely noticeable; it would be so easy, just a small one, just to calm down….

No. He shook his head vigorously; he hadn't given in to such weakness for a decade. There was no reason to give in now. John wouldn't like it. Be in control….be in control….he chided himself.

He sat on the floor for a few minutes, breathing deeply and trying to go to the deep place in his mind where everything was safe. When he stood up and began to dress, he didn't really feel much better; he still felt nervous and weak, but he would manage to get done what he needed to get done and then come back home. He had done more difficult things before, surely he could do this.


	8. John

Sherlock was just cleaning up the lab when John showed up; he groaned inside. He didn't want John here right now. He knew the only reason that he was here right now was because he was checking up on him. He had had to deal with Molly hovering over him the entire time that he had been working and now that he had finally gotten rid of her, in walks John carrying in a bag of take away "I was just on my way back to the flat and wanted to see if you were just about done here" he said pleasantly.

Sherlock wasn't fooled. John didn't just 'happen to be in the area', he was checking on him. "Yes, I'm just about done, so why don't you just go on back home" he said, trying to sound somewhat nice even though he just felt really annoyed. He had managed to get through the autopsy without any issues; he hadn't had any flashbacks or almost fainting episodes. He didn't want John asking any questions though. His hands felt shaky slightly still and his stomach still burned as fierce as it had this morning. Sherlock was beginning to fear these physical symptoms of his mental condition were not going to go away so easily.

"Well, if you're almost done, why don't I just wait and we can go back together?" John asked. "I'll just stay over here out of the way and you can finish."

Sherlock was about to argue but John wasn't really bothering him; he took a seat by the door and began to tinker with his mobile. Sherlock didn't figure he needed to be so rude that he ordered John away when he wasn't even asking any questions, so he left him alone.

Sherlock finished cleaning up the table while John kept to himself. Sherlock was beginning to think that maybe he had underestimated his flat mate; maybe he wasn't here to prod him for information. Sherlock was beginning to feel somewhat better about the whole thing as he rolled the body he was autopsying back into the cooler. When he opened the cooler, the air hit him and sent chills over him. He pushed the body back into the cooler but the chills that he was feeling was getting worse. He pulled his coat around him tighter and closed the door, but instead of getting better, the chills were getting worse. Soon his whole body was shaking and his knees felt weak. With horror he began to see black at the edges of his vision. No….it couldn't be. Not now….not with John here. Sherlock tried to shake his head and rid himself of the things that were coming to his vision but he couldn't. He knew by now that he was at a loss to stop it….He was shivering all over, coldness was invading every part of his body….

_Sherlock's whole body shook as the water dripped down his frozen skin. Cold, so very cold….he wondered if you could die from cold. At the very least he wished he would pass out from the pain that his body felt. But even this he could not be fortunate enough to do. _

_His arms burned and strained from the weight of body as he hung from the ceiling. His body stung all around from the electricity that they had just coursed through his body. The water, meant to help impede the pain of the electricity, rolled off him still, chilling every inch of injured, naked body. _

_Part of him just wanted to die; if he could die it would just be over. Every day that he was here, the more he was hurt and damaged it became harder to figure out a way to get out of here. It became harder to think…..harder to care. _

_But one thing kept him going. John….He was the reason he had jumped, the reason he had spent the past two years running, hunting. He'd been working all this time to make it back to him one day. He couldn't give up now. _

_Sherlock forced himself to go deep into a place in his mind. It was hard, with pain that coursed through his body and the numbing cold but he tried as hard as he could. He thought of 221B, cases, John…..How long it had been since he'd seen him but he could still see John's face as if he had just left. His mind did not betray him in this…._

_When Sherlock heard the door open he forced his eyes to stay closed. Thinking of John, pretend you aren't here….._

_When they sprayed him again and he knew what was coming, he forced himself to imagine, think…._

_Sherlock felt the electric voltage course through his body but tried his hardest to zone it out….._

_John….John….._

…

John heard a crash and looked up from his phone. He looked over to the cooler and saw Sherlock crumpled on the floor next to it. "Sherlock, you okay?" John asked cautiously. When Sherlock didn't answer, John ran over to him, crouching down in front of him.

"Sherlock" John said but when he looked at his friend he knew instantly that he wasn't going to answer. Sherlock's face was deathly pale, his eyes dark and unfocused, looking off into some unknown horror only he could see. His hands trembled. The look of fear was so severe that John had to do something.

John put his arm on Sherlock' shoulder and gently shook him, "Sherlock, hey, you're okay. Snap out of" he calmly called to his friend.

After a few seconds, Sherlock looked up, directly into John's eyes. Tears filled his eyes, his lip quivered and vulnerability crossed his face. "John?" he asked.

John wasn't sure if Sherlock was yet all the way there but said, "Yes, Sherlock. I'm here"

Sherlock held his hands in front of him and they shook uncontrollably. A long tear finally escaped from his eye and rolled down his face as he looked at John. He looked so scared and small John wanted to embrace him but he didn't. " John, I'm so…..scared" he said distantly, his voice thick with emotion.

"It's okay Sherlock, you're okay now. Nothing is going to hurt you here" John soothed as he put a hand on Sherlock's arm.

John saw Sherlock's head twitch to the side and he jumped slightly. He looked back at John. Confusion crossed his face and he could see that Sherlock's mind was fully back by the light in his eyes. "John?" Sherlock asked cautiously, this time his voice was not scared or as vulnerable as it had been.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You had a bit of a flashback. But you are okay now. I-"John said, but Sherlock was already getting up. John watched as Sherlock took off towards the door and he followed him closely. John trotted ahead so that he reached Sherlock. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him around, not letting go despite Sherlock's effort to break the connection. "Stop Sherlock, we need to talk" he said.

"No we don't" Sherlock said firmly, hardness in his eyes.

"Sherlock, yeah we do" John said defiantly. "You're scaring the hell out of me with these episodes. You can't just ignore this….I want you to be okay"

"I am okay….you are worried about nothing John" Sherlock said strongly.

"Nothing, sure" John said incredulously, "You having these nightmares and break downs in the middle of the day is nothing. I-

Sherlock didn't let him finish. He pulled his arm away firmly and gave John his most icy stare. "John, just leave me the hell alone" he spat and he stormed out the door. John knew better than to follow him.


	9. Please See I'm Hurting

**Please let me know what you think! Reviews keep me going :)**

_**Trigger Warning: Self Harm **_

Sherlock ran out to the curb and hailed the first cab that he saw. He barked his address at the cabbie and then sat back in the seat, trying to calm down as he road back to Baker Street. His hands were still shaking and he felt his body warring between cold and hot temputure creating a sweaty, chilled effect. His stomach was on fire and he folded his arms in an attempt to calm it, though nothing helped. There was no fooling himself or John for that matter, that something was very wrong. But that didn't mean that he was willing to talk about it. He didn't know why the events of the past three years were now coming to him in such violent ways but talking about them was not going to make it better. He needed to ignore them, will his mind to bury them back where they had been since they had happened.

When the cab stopped at 221B Sherlock paid the cabbie hastily and ran into the flat. He went to his room, locking the door firmly behind him. He knew that John was not to be far behind him and the last thing that he wanted was to talk to him right now. If he talked about what he was seeing he couldn't forget it, ignore it, and that was all that was going to make it go away.

Sherlock's stomach rolled and burned and he went to ran to the wastebasket, willing himself to vomit; surely that would help him feel better. The only thing that came up was bile and all it did was make things worse; now his throat burned in addition to the burning in his stomach. He set the wastebasket aside and laid down on the floor beside it, pulling his legs up into a curled up position.

When he heard the sound of footsteps in the flat he knew that John was home. He resisted the urge to answer his calls; he had to stay firm and ignore these issues. He couldn't admit sickness and hurt; that would make it real. And he certainly couldn't let John see it. John saw him as strong; if he could see him curled up on the floor, desperate to stop hurting, he would no longer believe that.

…

John didn't rush back home; he knew that Sherlock wasn't going to talk to him, so he didn't need to hurry. He wished that Sherlock would talk to him; he could help him. He knew what it was like to experience the debilitating fear that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes and he wanted to help him. And he was becoming downright alarmed by his behavior as well; how he looked at John ad talked to him and then just dramatically switched his attitude seemed very off to him. He was afraid Sherlock might have a breakdown soon if someone didn't intervene. And who would intervene but him?

When he entered the flat he called out Sherlock's name, not expecting him to answer. After a few failed attempts, John gave up. He put the bag of take away on the kitchen table; he didn't have an appetite now. He went over to his computer and looked for something to distract himself from the worries in his head, keeping an ear out for any sound coming from Sherlock's room.

…

Sherlock pulled the small blade away from his skin and watched the slow trickle of blood gather on the cut before beginning to run down his arm. He allowed himself a few moments to watch it, breathing deeply and calming himself before he grabbed a towel and put it to the cut. He hated himself for it the second that he did it; John would not like it. But he couldn't take the pressure in his head. He absolutely had to find something to relive the crushing fear and anxiety. Sherlock pulled the towel back and looked at the small cut beside the few faint scars that dotted his arms; this one wouldn't leave a scar. He knew how to hide it better than he had when he had gotten those. He looked at the old wounds and thought about the events that had precipitated those for a few moments before he shook it out of his mind. He had enough to think about with his current problems. He was so tired but he didn't want to go to sleep; he was petrified of going to sleep. The nightmares, the fear, the terror…..

Sherlock cursed as he looked down at his arm and the cut that was now larger than he had meant to make it; he hadn't even remembered going back to it as his mind had drifted off towards the fear of sleep that he now hated to admit that he had. Sherlock cursed again as his bloody fingers grasped the towel and put pressure on the cut; now it was going to leave a scar.

Sherlock got off the floor where he was sitting and sat in his bed, learning against the headboard. The more he watched the calmer he became; by the time that the bleeding stopped he was feeling the calmest that he had in days. He still desperately didn't want to go to sleep but he felt calmer and that was a blessing.

…

_Sherlock woke up within a second and could tell that something was different; someone was in the room and he could sense it. He opened his eyes which didn't produce much light for him. He laid against his bed, unmoving, eyes staring into the pitch blackness of the cheap motel room, forcing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a minuet, his eyes adjusted and he had tuned his ears to the sound of the man that was standing by the window of the room, knife in hand, walking slowly toward the bed with murder on his mind. Sherlock knew that he was coming; he had been anticipating it for the past two weeks really. Looking over his shoulder, fearing when it would happen. And now the time had come; the man had obviously been hoping to catch him unaware but he underestimated Sherlock. Sherlock, who had been sleeping with one eye open for the past two years and who was wrapping his hand around a knife under his pillow in the darkness. _

_As the man crossed the room, Sherlock's heart was hammering against his chest but he forced himself to remain perfectly still, prepared to poise. As the man stood over Sherlock, raising the knife , Sherlock took his moment to act. In one strong movement Sherlock leaped from the bed, his hands meeting the neck of his attacker, pushing him down to the floor. The man fought wildly against Sherlock's grip; when he stabbed at Sherlock in the darkness, Sherlock felt the point contact the skin on his shoulder, digging painfully in for a fragment of a second before Sherlock pushed back, forcing the blade out of his flesh. Sherlock pushed back, but the man stabbed back with surprising force. Sherlock tried to roll out of the way in time but he was too late. The blade sliced painfully through his shoulder and Sherlock screamed….._

_….._

John woke up to the same blood curdling scream that he heard a few nights ago and instantly was on his feet. His head rushed from the blood that was trying to go there quickly from his sudden jump up. John walked quickly through the cold flat, feeling the coolness of the flat sinking into his skin and going deep. He knew whatever he found in Sherlock's room and whatever was causing Sherlock to scream this way was not good; it was horrible and terrifying and John couldn't do anything to stop it.

John threw open Sherlock's bedroom door and rushed over to his bed. Almost as if sensing his presence, Sherlock stopped his blood curdling screaming when John entered the room. It was replaced by a whimpering, crying sound that scared John more than the screaming. He crossed the room so that he could see Sherlock's face. He was pale, sweat covering his face which was contorted in pain. The sounds that were coming out of his mouth didn't even sound natural; they sounded so small and scared, like a child. It was the opposite of the way that John thought of his flat mate. It was just as fragile and hurt as the look that he had seen earlier when Sherlock had been having his flashback. John was torn between waking Sherlock and letting him sleep; if he woke him, he would just shut down and hold the hurt in, but if he let him sleep, he would continue to be tormented by the images in his head.

Sherlock's whimpering was becoming quieter and quieter, and John had decided to leave Sherlock asleep when he noticed he noticed how tangled Sherlock was in his sheets, his very wet sheets. Oh God….

John thought about just leaving; Sherlock would be beyond mortified when he woke up and probably lash out at John because of his embarrassment. But he couldn't just leave him like that either. This wasn't normal, not even for the most extreme nightmares, and John was becoming extremely concerned that Sherlock was very, very sick.

Feeling his stomach twist with concern and bracing for Sherlock's lashing out at him, John shook the sleeping man gently. Sherlock jerked awake more animated than necessary with how gentle John had been and looked around in confusion. When he noticed John standing there, he squinted his eyes groggily. "John, what are you doing in here?" he asked.

It was strange for John to see Sherlock so sleepy and dazed. He rarely slept and when he did, he woke up quickly and alert. "You were having a nightmare" John said cautiously. "You were screaming"

Sherlock's eyes were still half glazed over. "Oh…"he said distantly, eyelids drooping. "Well, just let me sleep….I'm fine" he said.

Sherlock really was out of it; he didn't even notice. John shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I woke you because you….um, really need to change your clothes I think" he said delicately, feeling his own face burn with embarrassment.

Sherlock's eyes shifted around lazily before he looked down and the lights came on in his eyes. Sherlock's pale face turned scarlet and he wouldn't look at John.

"Its okay, you know…" John said uncomfortably, feeling the need to say something. "It happens, no big deal" Even though it kind of was.

Sherlock didn't say anything; he didn't look at John. He practically leapt from the bed with surprising energy now and was out the door before John could say anything. John wasn't surprised, not in the least. He sighed deeply and let Sherlock go, knowing he could do nothing for his friend right now.

…

Sherlock walked to the bathroom quickly, the uncomfortableness of his condition very apparent as he walked. The second that he shut the door he stripped all his clothes off and threw them off in disgust. He turned the water on in the shower and climbed in quickly, wanting to be rid of the dirty feeling he had.

Sherlock leaned against the back on the shower and sunk down, sitting in the tub as the water fell upon his head. He pulled his knees up and rested his head on them; his stomach burned so much he could hardly move and his heart still hammered inside his chest from the nightmare. These physical symptoms were bad enough but combined with this embarrassing new development, it was unacceptable. John had been nice about it, but Sherlock's cheeks still burned with embarrassment at what had happened. Nothing like this had happened since he was pre-teen but the embarrassment he felt in childhood now was coming back to him with force; nightmares and wet clothes was an almost every night occurrence then and he refused to think that this was again about to the be the case. This was totally unacceptable.

Sherlock could feel the cut on arm beginning to sting again and he looked at it to see that the water had caused it to begin to bleed again. He watched the water on his arm become pink as it ran down his pale skin and felt something inside him becoming undone. He could feel an unpleasant sting in his eyes as tears collected in them; the fear and terror that was beginning to characteristic his days and nights, the pain in his body but mostly the crushing loneliness and sadness that weighed on him was becoming too much.

Sherlock kept his head down in the shower and began to sob; it had been a long time since he had given himself over to such tears. Even when the events that he was reliving now had actually occurred he hadn't often cried or become overwhelmed by them. The only time that he had given over to such a display of emotion in recent memory was when John had been in the hospital dying.

Sherlock continued to cry even though it was beginning to make him feel physically worse, not better. He put his hand over his mouth as he cried, trying to muffle the sound but part of him wanting John to know how much he hurt.


	10. I Cant See

John debated with himself for a few minutes before he began to take the sheets off Sherlock's bed; it wasn't an altogether pleasant thing and he really tried to not think about it as he did it. Sherlock was so closed in on himself; this might be the only way that he could help him.

John left the dirty sheets in a pile on the floor before walking down the hallway to the closet where the extra linens were. When John passed by the bathroom he heard the water of the shower on and didn't think much of it as he went to get the new sheets. But when he passed by on the way back, he heard something else that made him stop; as he stood by the door and strained his ear he could swear he almost hear Sherlock…..

But no, it couldn't be.

John knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock? You okay in there? You need anything?" He called out unassumingly.

"I'm fine" Sherlock called out. John could tell that Sherlock was trying very much to sound like normal, but John knew him well enough that he could tell his tone was different. Sherlock _was_ crying.

John opened the bathroom door and walked into the steam filled room. He could see Sherlock's shadow dimly behind the shower curtain, not standing, he must be sitting. John could see the outline of his head close to the edge of the tub and John sat down on the bathroom floor by the tub, close to where Sherlock was hidden behind the curtain. "You're not fine, Sherlock." He said. "You know, its okay to admit that"

There was a long pause in which John could hear muffled sniffles. " No" was all Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, listen" John said with a sigh. He knew the only way he could possibly get through to Sherlock was if he was completely honest with him. "I know that you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's going on. You'd just go on normally if it wasn't for me saying something. But that isn't healthy and that isn't going to fix anything. I know that I don't know exactly what you went through when you were gone, but I do know what it is like to have nightmares, flashbacks. To be afraid of your own mind, your own head. When I came back from Afghanistan it was like that; I had nightmares all the time; I still do sometimes, though its pretty rare now. I know after a while it wreaked havoc with my mind and my spirit. That's what it was like before I met you." John paused, not really knowing why he added that part. He hoped that Sherlock might say something, but he didn't. "There were times I even thought…..about just ending it all." John turned toward the shower curtain, whishing he could see Sherlock's face, get some idea of what he was thinking. " And that's precisely what I don't want to happen with you."

There was a long pause and John thought for a moment that Sherlock wouldn't say anything. Eventually he spoke. "I'm not going to kill myself, John" he said. His voice was steadier this time; he had gotten control of his emotions again.

"I'm not saying you are" John said "I'm just saying…..I'm worried about you. I want you to be okay."

There was no response from Sherlock and John knew that he needed to do something. He was not a psychologist and he really had no idea what to do in situations such as these. But he knew something drastic might have to happen. John had some ideas what he could do, but Sherlock wouldn't like any of them.

"Please don't worry about me" Sherlock said with strained normalcy. " I really don't want you to."

"Then let me help you" John said. He could see Sherlock's form behind the curtain and thought about reaching out to it but then thought better of it.

"You are helping me" Sherlock said. "Just by being here"

…

When John had come in the bathroom, it was all that Sherlock could do to not lose it and tell him how he felt; how desperate and lonely and scared he was. It scared Sherlock how strongly he was feeling over everything and he just wanted to hear someone tell him that it was going to be okay. But he knew that that was desperate and Sherlock didn't want anyone, especially John, to see that.

So as John had spoken, he had sat curled up in the tub and let the water and John's words wash over him. It made him feel worse that John was so worried about him; that wouldn't solve anything and he didn't want to cause John any pain.

John seemed satisfied, or at least persuaded to drop the subject after Sherlock told him that he was helping him. Sherlock turned off the water in the shower as he heard John leave the bathroom. He dried himself off and put his dressing gown on, wincing at the pain that he felt in his arm where the cut was now agitated from the water. Sherlock walked to his bedroom but paused in the doorframe when he saw John putting sheets on the bed. He felt a blush cross his cheeks, remembering the reason John was doing this. Sometimes he really believed that he didn't deserve to have John around.

Sherlock turned and left his room without John noticing him and went to the living room. He felt inexplicably tired; his body ached and his eyes burned. He was not used to having this kind of fatigue; he could go days without a thought of sleep if he had to and yet the past few days he'd slept most of the night and he was still tired. He'd even tried to fight the fatigue tonight so he could avoid a nightmare and yet he hadn't been able to. Knowing he was too tired to fight it this time, Sherlock sat down on the couch and stretched out across it, feeling his body succumb to the fatigue almost immediately.

….

When John had gotten Sherlock's bed situated, he went looking for him throughout the flat. He was surprised when he found him passed out on the couch, his hair still wet and still wearing nothing but his dressing gown. John thought about waking him, but he was having what appeared to be peaceful sleep for once and John didn't have the heart. John got a blanket and draped it over Sherlock before going back to his bedroom and tried to attempt to sleep again.

When he woke up again it was late morning and the flat was quiet. John went to the living room and found Sherlock's spot abandoned and he was not to be found anywhere else. John went back to the bedroom to get his mobile to call Sherlock but found a text from instead:

Lestrade called for a case. You can come whenever you wake up-SH

John shook his head; the last thing that Sherlock needed to be doing was working on a case. John had had it in his mind to tell him so this morning, in a delicate way, when he woke. He didn't expect that Sherlock would run off before he had the chance.

John dressed quickly and made for a taxi, hoping he was wrong about Sherlock and that he would be okay at the crime scene.

…

Sherlock was glad but apprehensive when he awoke the next morning and saw a text from Lestrade. He was glad for a case, a distraction from the issues that he'd been having. But the crushing feelings from last night; the loneliness, sadness, fear, were crushing down on him again. His stomach burned painfully and he felt slightly lightheaded, but he wrote it off; he must simply be tired. The emotions were overwhelming and alarming strong and Sherlock was tempted again; he put his hand to the still sore spot on his arm but fought the urge. No; he'd gone so many years without doing this, he didn't need to make it a habit again. He decided instead on cigarettes.

He arrived to the crime scene within ten minutes and was anxious to get to work. He had found that the couple-or several- cigarettes he'd had had that opposite effect he'd hoped for; rather than calm him, he found himself more wound up than he'd been before. His stomach ached so much he resisted the urge to wretch and his hands shook so badly he feared they might be noticeable His slight lightheadedness was so bad now he wasn't seeing completely straight. He was considering turning around and leaving when Lesrtade noticed him. "Sherlock, glad you're here" he called as he walked over. Dull….now he would have to stay.

"Morning" Sherlock said tartly, following Lesrtade to the door of the small flat where the forensics team was working. Sherlock walked into the sitting room where two bodies were lying face down on the carpet, their heads badly damaged, clearly beaten to death.

"What do we know so far?" Sherlock asked. His head was beginning to pound and there were little dots of light in his vision. Sherlock rubbed his eyes to make the dots go away but they wouldn't. His ears were beginning to ring.

Lestrade became to explain the situation to Sherlock thus far but Sherlock didn't hear anything. As Lestrade began to speak the ringing in Sherlock's ears got louder, fazing in and out. Sherlock just caught snippets of what he was saying and none of it made any sense.

As Lestrade finished his dialog and trotted off toward the forensics team, Sherlock saw John coming toward him through his hazy vision. John…..

"Hey, how are you doing?" John asked as he joined Sherlock. There was clear concern on John's face, even with his hazy vision."you okay?"

"Of course, let's get to work" Sherlock said. But he wasn't okay; he wanted to grab John and hold on for dear life. The ground under him seemed to move, his ears wouldn't work, his vision was blurry at best and his head hurt so badly he couldn't hardly stand. But not here; no, he couldn't lose it here.

Sherlock walked over to the two bodies on the floor and began to examine them as John looked them over as well. Sherlock's stomach rolled at the sight and smell of the bodies and blood, and he forced his shaking hands to move as he examined them. Sherlock didn't remember any of the details that Lestrade has provided and as he looked the bodies over he deduced…..nothing. He could figure out absolutely nothing…..

Without warning, Sherlock's legs buckled under him as the room swam. His head felt like it was splitting in two and he was aware he'd fallen to the floor. He felt so dizzy he didn't even attempt to get up; he knew people were staring at him alarmed through his fuzzy vision and he was relieved when he saw John's form beside him in an instant. "Oh my God, Sherlock, you okay?" he asked quietly, to which Sherlock was thankful.

No….no he wasn't okay. Sherlock finally had to admit that. When he had looked at those bodies he'd seen nothing, and that was not okay. His extraordinary mind had deteriorated completely and he was lost. "John" he called out, shooing other people away from him that had come over to attend to him.

Thankful, John understood. Like he always did. "Move back, give him some air" John said, shooing people away from Sherlock. Once they had moved away from him, John leaned in. "Okay Sherlock, they're gone….what's going on?"

Sherlock could feel tears moving desperately to his eyes but he wasn't going to cry. Not here, not now. " I can't see anything John" he whispered. His voice was so quiet that John had to lean in to hear him. Sherlock's hands shook and even when he held them together he couldn't stop the shaking.

"What, your eyes?" John asked, almost hiding his alarm.

"No…I mean, I can see but…." Sherlock's voice didn't want to seem to work right. It strained and his throat hurt. "I can't tell anything….about the bodies. My deductions…..I don't know anything"

Sherlock had to admit that John did very well at hiding his worry this time. "That's okay, Sherlock. Lets just get out of here, okay? Go home and rest" he said.

Normally Sherlock would argue. But now he was too tired, hurting too much to argue. "Okay "Sherlock said. He leaned in toward John to whisper. "Don't let anyone know, okay?"

"Of course I won't" John said encouragingly.

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	11. Night from Hell

John tried to not worry as he sat in the cab back on the way to the flat, but he couldn't help it. He even noticed that he'd been biting his fingernails, something he hadn't done since he was a child. He chided himself and put his hands down, but they then began to tap on his knee; he couldn't stay still. Sherlock's behavior was beyond alarming and John feared that he had waited too long to help him; visions of Sherlock in an institution flashed through his mind but he shook his head to rid them. That wasn't going to happen…..it couldn't.

John couldn't believe how pale and frail Sherlock was at the crime scene. His color was almost unnatural and he was shaking uncontrollably; the fact that he didn't run away from John showed that he was really sick. And to hear that Sherlock couldn't deduce anything about the victims…well that was disturbing. The fact that he admitted it to John was downright scary.

But what was happening now was even scarier; since they had left the crime scene, Sherlock had not spoken one word. He wouldn't answer John, he wouldn't even acknowledge that John had spoken. He just stared straight ahead, his eyes distant and unfocused. John feared that Sherlock might be trapped in the dark place in his mind that had caused all of this.

When the cab stopped at Baker Street and John paid the cabbie. When John got out of the cab, Sherlock made no movement. He just continued to stare into the abyss.

"Sherlock, get out of the cab" John said gently. No response.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, get out of the cab" John said a little louder this time. Still nothing.

John pulled on Sherlock's arm. "Come on Sherlock" he said, pulling at him.

When John pulled him, Sherlock finally turned around and looked at him. He still didn't say anything, but he got out of the cab and that was something. At least some part of him was still in there.

John gently grabbed Sherlock's arm and led him inside the flat. As Sherlock walked, it seemed to John that he wasn't even taking in his surroundings, but just allowing John to lead him. He didn't speak, didn't look around; when John stopped walking and let go of Sherlock's arm in the sitting room, Sherlock just stood there, frozen.

"Sherlock, if you can hear me or understand me at all, please say something" John begged. He moved so that he was standing directly in front of Sherlock's unfocused eyes. "I really want to know you're not lost in there. Please say something." John looked into Sherlock's eyes, which were now darting around sporadically; it was scary.

John was at a loss; he didn't know what was even going on here and therefor had no idea what to do to make it better. Deciding he might as well make Sherlock comfortable, he took Sherlock's arm and dragged him slowly to his bedroom. John took off Sherlock's coat and suit jacket; Sherlock didn't even seem to notice. John pushed Sherlock back so that he was sitting on the bed. John knelt down and took off Sherlock's shoes before moving his legs so that they were stretched out on the bed.

John put Sherlock's pillow behind his head and pulled the covers up to his chest; he wasn't sure if Sherlock could or would sleep in his current state, but John wanted to do what he could to calm Sherlock's fragile mental state. John walked over to Sherlock's iPod player and put on a symphony that John knew Sherlock favored. He turned the light off and reluctantly left Sherlock in the bedroom. "Sleep good Sherlock" John said quietly, hoping that Sherlock could hear him even if he couldn't acknowledge it.

…

John jerked awake that night and felt sweaty and shaky. He threw off the blankets and lay back on his bed, trying to stop shaking. It had taken him a long time to go to sleep; Sherlock had remained stoic all day and John was really worried. He knew that if something didn't change he was going to have to do something drastic; images of Sherlock in an institution came back into his head and made John feel sick.

But finally he'd been able to fall asleep. Now he was awaken by something and he was sure that he hadn't been asleep very long. John lay in his bed in a sweat for a few minutes before he heard noises coming from somewhere else in the flat. If John had to guess he'd say it was coming from the kitchen. John got up quickly; hopeful that Sherlock might have snapped out of his episode and yet also scared that Sherlock might be doing something even scarier than his zombie like trance.

John walked into the kitchen, turning a light on to escape the oppressive darkness. John crept quietly along the floor, seeing Sherlock's tall shape in the kitchen and not waiting to scare him. When John got to the kitchen and he could see Sherlock completely, he froze where he was standing. Sherlock was standing in the kitchen, holding up the largest kitchen knife John had ever seen.

"Sherlock…."John said cautiously.

Sherlock whipped around; his eyes were wild and his face covered in sweat. His hands were shaking as he held up the knife, thrusting it in John's direction. "Back….back! Get back!" Sherlock screeched at John.

John held up his hands. "Whoa, Sherlock" John said soothingly. "It's okay."

"No, it isn't!" Sherlock practically screamed at John, swinging the knife around. "It's not okay at all!"

"What is it Sherlock?" John asked gently. "Can you tell me what is wrong?"

"They are going to get me" Sherlock said desperately, His face paled and he moved erratically back and forth in the kitchen.

"Who?" John asked. Sherlock was obviously having an episode and it was scaring John senseless.

"His men, Moriarty's men" Sherlock said, putting his hands on his face. " They are going to find out I'm alive and they're going to come after you"

"Me? Why are they after me?" John asked.

"To kill you! John! Dammit!" Sherlock's eyes were completely wild and what little color was left in his face drained. "I jumped to save you and if they find out I'm alive you'll be dead…" Sherlock held the blade of the knife in both hands "I'm a fucking idiot!"

John was so alarmed that he didn't know what to do. Sherlock's obvious detachment from reality, out of character speech and obvious emotional distress was so strange he didn't know what to do. And the way that Sherlock held the blade in his hand was scary.

"Sherlock, you're not an idiot" john said gently.

"Yes I am!" Sherlock said, "I should have never come here! They will know I was here and they will kill you…." Sherlock swung the knife around as he put his hands to his head. " John….john…._John….._"

The way that Sherlock said John's name was almost like a moan, a whimper. John walked cautiously toward Sherlock. He was totally unprepared when Sherlock put the knife to his palm and sliced a large cut into it. "Sherlock, don't!" John said, rushing forward and grabbing Sherlock's hands and throwing the knife on the ground. Blood was pouring freely from Sherlock's hand and John pressed his shirt to the cut to staunch the blood but his shirt was quickly stained. "Sherlock, why did you do that?" John asked, more quietly this time.

To John's surprise and horror, Sherlock burst into tears. John froze; it gave Sherlock enough time to snatch his injured hand away from John. Sherlock pressed his hands to his eyes as he cried, smearing blood across his face and looking positively desperate. John grabbed Sherlock's hand again and looked into Sherlock's distant eyes. "Sherlock, calm down. Why did you do this?"

Sherlock's lip trembled as tears ran down his face, mingling with the blood and rolling down pink. " I can't save you….." he said. His voice didn't even sound like it belonged to him.

As John's stomach dropped he realized how much deeper this went than he realized. "Sherlock, I'm here and I'm safe. Really, you did a good job."

Sherlock looked at John with tear filled eyes, lip trembling before he lashed out against John. He swung his hands around and tried to get free, pushing against John. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's chest, his arms straining to contain Sherlock's flailing arms. John fought against Sherlock for a few moments before Sherlock crumpled to the ground and John with him. Sherlock sat back slumped against John's chest, sobbing almost hysterically now. John leaned against the kitchen cupboards, arms wrapped around Sherlock's chest as he held him in his lap.

This was so much worse than John had ever expected. As Sherlock cried in his arms and muttered something unintelligible in a broken voice, a lump formed in John's throat.

…..

Some terrible amount of time later John flopped back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He wasn't sure how, or if, he would be able to sleep now. He put his hands on his face and ran them from there back to his hair. Eventually, after what had felt like an eternity, Sherlock had stopped crying and slumped against him almost comatose-like. He didn't appear to be just asleep because he didn't move when John moved him from the kitchen to his bedroom, nor did he make any movement as John patched up his deeply cut hand.

John was crushed by his worry; he thought about crying, but somehow he was too emotionally tired to even expend the energy needed to have a good cry. And it wouldn't help anyway. Sherlock was very sick; John feared he may actually be mental. John had no knowledge of what to do here; he clearly wasn't suffering from PTSD. This was something more, something frightening. John wanted to help his friend; he was a doctor, that's what he did. He fixed things, but Sherlock was broken and he couldn't fix him.

John tossed and turned, fretting for a long time before he started to drift off. He was just at the point of unconsciousness when he was woken by screaming. His body jerked awake and made him feel like he had fallen. Which, he realized after a second, he had actually fallen out of bed. He had wakened with such haste to get to get to Sherlock that he had rolled out of bed towards the door.

John burst into Sherlock's room to see him thrashing around in the covers, clawing at everything around him. John rushed over to the bed and threw his arms around Sherlock to restating him. "Sherlock, Sherlock. Calm down, it's okay" he tried to sooth.

"Get away from me!" Sherlock screamed, clawing at John, getting him full in the face. John's face stung painfully but he resisted the urge to drop his arms.

"Sherlock, look at me" John said, "It's okay….you're fine"

Sherlock obeyed and looked at John. But John could tell that by the way that he looked at him, that it was not John that he saw. "No…..it's not you….you're not here! You're dead!" he screamed a blood curdling scream louder than any John had ever heard as he thrashed harder than he had before.

"You're not here! You're not!" Sherlock screamed as he clawed at John. John's hands were quickly beginning to bleed from the scratch marks but John was afraid what Sherlock might do if he let go. He might hurt himself….he might hurt John. John could only guess who it was he saw when he looked at him but it was clear that he saw him as a threat.

"You were supposed to be dead!" Sherlock screamed at the top of lungs. "Dead….don't hurt him!"

John flinched against the pain as he held Sherlock. He thought it was a miracle that Mrs. Hudson wasn't banging on the door; with the way that Sherlock was screaming he certainly had woken the whole block up.

But as quickly as his screaming began, it stopped and Sherlock took to whimpering again. He cried drily against John's arms, crumbling against him, no longer fighting. "John…..John….help me…." He cried. "I'm lost….."

It took everything that John had to not lose it himself. Sherlock was lost in a world where all of his fears were coming true. Where his enemies lived and where John was not safe. John had often doubted how Sherlock might feel about him; often he thought he hated him, didn't care about him or just was neutral to him. But as John saw what Sherlock couldn't express, he saw how wrong he had been about all of that.

Sherlock cried against John's arm for a few minutes before he jerked awake. It was with surprising force that Sherlock jerked his head back and gasped for air. John let go as Sherlock pitched his head forward and made gasping sounds, clawing at his own throat. The wheezing, strangled sounds that Sherlock was making were terrible and John felt helpless.

Sherlock gasped for air for what felt like an eternity, but what was really probably only a minuet before he stopping gasping and threw up on the bed. His body heaved violently as Sherlock spilled his stomach contents, which to John's dismay, appeared to be just bile tinged with blood. It made John's own stomach roll; Sherlock must have an ulcer from all this stress. And heaven only knew the last time that he ate anything.

Once Sherlock had stopped throwing up, he looked up at John, scared and helpless, like a child that was surprised they'd gotten sick and didn't know whether to cry or not. "John, what's happening to me?" he asked, looking down at the vomit on his shirt and his shaking hands.

Sherlock looked like he was about to cry and John rushed in to stop the flood of scary emotion that he saw about to be displayed on his flat mate's face. "You just got a little bit sick…food didn't agree with you?" John lied. "No big deal, uh, just change your shirt and go lay down on the couch while I change your blankets"

Sherlock seemed confused, but after a few seconds he accepted John's explanation and when to the closet to get another shirt, taking off his blood covered one and putting on a clean one, before wondering out of the room.

John stripped the sheets off Sherlock's bed for the second night in a row, wincing at all the blood. Sherlock was not well…..not in the least.

After John stripped the covers he put clean ones on, feeling so weary he could hardly stand. John walked into the living room, hoping that he could get Sherlock into bed and with a somewhat restful sleep soon so that he too might get some sleep. But when he went to the couch, Sherlock wasn't there. His stomach dropped at the thought of where Sherlock could be and what he could be doing. John's heart was in a fury as he ran around the flat, looking for Sherlock. He found him in the most unlikely of places; he was curled up, fast asleep, in John's bed.

John stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock sleep for a few minuets. He actually seemed peaceful for once. No screaming, no pain; maybe he would be able to finish the night's sleep without waking again. John hoped so; he left the light on in the bedroom and left the door cracked, just in case. Then John went back to Sherlock's room and collapsed on Sherlock's newly made bed.


	12. Going on a Holiday

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Sherlock awoke and instantly knew something was wrong. He sat up quickly and looked around the room scanning for danger. He didn't see any danger, but he was instantly aware that this was John's room and not his own. Why was he asleep in John's bed of all things? He felt heat crept up his face even though no one was here to see him. Sherlock's hand throbbed and he looked down to see his hand had thick bandages around it. But that didn't make sense…..

His head pounded, his stomach burned and he felt horrible. He felt like he hadn't even slept at all. Sherlock tried to think back to last night and what must have happened that he felt so badly; but when he tried to remember, nothing came to him. Nothing….not a single thing. The last thing that he could remember was being at the crime scene yesterday. The one that had gone so wrong…..

Sherlock could hear John in the living room and Sherlock walked into the room to join him. John was sitting at the table by the window, eating breakfast and Sherlock sat on the other side of the table. The way that John was looking at him was enough to tell Sherlock that whatever had happened last night, it was not good. John looked exhausted and pale and his eyes were full of concern.

"How do you feel?" John asked, giving Sherlock a worried look.

"I'm fine" Sherlock said, trying to avoid John's eyes, knowing the answer wouldn't suffice.

"You're fine?" John asked skeptically, "You don't remember anything about last night, do you?"

Sherlock thought about lying and saying yes, but he really didn't remember and he knew that lying wouldn't get him anywhere. His mental capabilities since all these flashbacks began occurring were so slow and muddled. So not himself. "No. Should I?" he asked sarcastically.

John shook his head. "I don't know, its probably better that you don't. Though that isn't an entirely good thing either."

Sherlock tried to hide his surprise; what did that mean? Whatever had happened was obviously bad….bad enough that John didn't want him to remember it. The fact that he didn't remember it was alarming.

John put his silverware down and put his hands together, surveying Sherlock over them. "We're leaving. Today" he said with a serious finality.

Sherlock felt an odd sense of confusion pass through him. "What? No, we're not going anywhere" he said strongly.

"Yeah, actually we are" John said, giving Sherlock an almost fierce look. "My cousin has a cabin out in the country and we are taking a holiday there."

"No" Sherlock said, sitting back and folding his arms. Who did John think he was making such a decision? It was stupid; they had work to do.

John sat back, arms folded. "Well, you don't actually have a choice Sherlock. For once, I'm making a damn decision that you are going to follow" he said angrily.

Sherlock was taken aback. This didn't happen; he made the decisions and John followed him. That's just the way that it was; why did John have any notion that it was going to change now? He didn't appreciate this decision making or the tone that John was using.

"This is ridiculous and I'm not going on any holiday. I don't need one" Sherlock insisted.

"If you had any idea what went on last night, you wouldn't be saying that. You _do _need a holiday." John insisted.

"You're overreacting, like always" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. That's what John always did. He always got so _emotional _about things.

"I am?" John said, raising his eyebrows. " Look at your hand. You did that last night….to yourself. Think that's okay?"

Sherlock looked down at the bandages as his hand throbbed; everything throbbed. His head, his stomach. He felt more explicably tired than he had in years .It was also the first time that Sherlock noticed the scratches on John's face and hands. Had he done that? Why would he? He couldn't imagine ever doing that to John unless he really was mental. Maybe a holiday was a good idea. But Sherlock didn't want to admit it. If he admitted that, even just to himself, that would mean that he really had given himself over to this illness. And he didn't want to do that just yet. Not without a fight.

"This is nothing but a flesh wound" Sherlock said, gesturing at his injured hand. "I would hardly think this was anything to worry about"

John shook his head with an undeniable "I-can't-believe-you" expression on his face. He ran his hands through his hair as he stared out the window. When he turned around he had an angry expression on his face like Sherlock had never seen before. "You are going" he said determined, walking closer to Sherlock. He leaned down as his face turned red. "If I have to beat you and drag you there, you're going. So, I suggest that you just start packing your bags and do this easily."

Sherlock had no doubts that technically in a fight John would win. And with the expression he had on now Sherlock was quite sure he would actually do it. "I have work to do"

John leaned down and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock . "Remember yesterday?" he asked. "You _can't _do your job anymore."

Sherlock felt an odd sense of….feelings? His stomach, which already hurt so much, felt a sensation like a punch as the realization that he was utterly useless came over him. John was right….he couldn't do it anymore. Then what was left for him?

Sherlock stood abruptly and pushed past John on his way to his bedroom.

…

John walked to his own bedroom, closing the door behind him and walking to the closet, pulling out his suitcase. He went to his drawers and began to look through his clothes, pulling ones out at random and throwing them into the suitcase. He was trying to keep busy, to keep his mind off the guilt that beginning to take hold in him, but it was no use. After a few minutes attempt to forget about it, in which time most of his items of clothing managed to make their way to the floor of his bedroom, he gave up, sitting down on his bed in defeat.

He knew that he had hurt Sherlock's feelings by telling him that he couldn't work anymore, even if it was the brutal truth. He knew before he said it that it was going to hurt him. But he also knew that unless he was hurtful and dug deep to the one thing that Sherlock held dear, his work, that he would continue to keep going on this way. He knew that he had to be hurtful, but it didn't make it easier when he saw Sherlock's face when the words had come stumbling out.

John spent the next several minuets packing up his things for the holiday, his guilt eating at him the entire time. Once he was satisfied that he had everything that he needed, he went to Sherlock's room. Just because he had meant to hurt Sherlock's feelings didn't mean that he wasn't going to apologize for it.

He knocked on Sherlock's door; it was silent for a long time and for whole John thought that he wasn't going to answer. But after a few moments, he heard a faint "come in" from behind the door.

John walked into Sherlock's room to see him sitting on the floor, still in his pyjamas, smoking. Judging from the amount of smoke in his room, John guessed that it wasn't the first cigarette he'd had. Sherlock didn't look at John as he said, "What? What do you want?" he stared straight up ahead, breathing deeply in from his cigarette. "I've already agreed to your damn holiday, so couldn't you leave me alone?"

"Sherlock, listen" John said, sitting down on Sherlock's bed so that he was sitting behind him. It would be easier to say it if he didn't have to look at him. "I know that I hurt your feelings, and I'm sorry. But you really have to come with me, on this holiday. Last night…." John could feel a lump developing in his throat and he swallowed several times to try and rid himself of it. His voice was still strained as a result. "Last night scared me…..scared the hell out of me to be honest. I know you don't remember it, but it was horrible. You had no idea where you were, who I was. You were completely lost to your hallucinations….you tried to hurt yourself, tried to hurt me. I'm just worried about you" John stared at the back of Sherlock's head and wished for him to say something. But Sherlock didn't say anything. The awkwardness was so thick in the room that John had to get up and leave. He paused at the door. He looked down at the floor. "I know you think I'm nagging you or being annoying or whatever….about all this. And I'm really not trying to be. I'm just doing what I can to help you. I'm sorry about what happened to you that's causing you to have these flashbacks. I know it must be awful because you are strong, Sherlock. Even now you still are and….."John looked away from Sherlock's direction. "I lost you for three years and I've just got you back…." The lump was growing even bigger in his throat, threating to take over and keep him from talking. Threatening to make him cry. " I don't want to lose you again. I care about you too much"

John turned and left the room before he gave Sherlock a chance to say anything and make him do something stupid like cry.


	13. Just Eat Your Damn Dinner!

**Again, thank you all for the comments and favs. You guys blow me away and I love it :) keep it coming**

The silence of the cab ride was both comforting and….not. Usually, Sherlock found long periods of silence to be therapeutic; people seemed to fill awkward silence with awkward talk and he hated that. But when he was with John there was never any awkward silence or awkward talk. Things were just…..easier with him than with anyone else. But Sherlock found that while he was glad he and John were not having to talk about what was going on, he wished that they were talking about _something. _

They had hardly said anything after the incident this morning. After what John had said to him in his room, the only things that they had said was couple of word sentences needed to make sure they were ready to go such as "Have we got everything?" or "Did you lock the door?" They hadn't addressed anything that had happened.

Sherlock looked over at John who had his arm propped up on the window, chin on his hand as he stared out the window, watching the green countryside pass by. Sherlock turned toward the window and began to stare as John was, though not really seeing anything.

After John had left his room, Sherlock had just stared straight ahead as he proceeded to smoke the rest of the pack of cigarettes that he had. He was startled at John's words; he had had hallucinations? He had really seen and acted against things that weren't there? The idea of such a thing was terribly disturbing, that his mind had fallen that far. But what was more disturbing was the fact that these things that he had seen had caused him to hurt himself and even worse, John. Upon really looking at John's face and hands, he realized how deep the cuts were; he had really been trying to hurt him. He couldn't let that happen again. What if next time it was worse?

Sherlock let his forehead fall upon the cold glass of the window. He also couldn't stop thinking about John's words. How upset he was…..how _afraid. _Afraid of losing him….did John really think that he was far gone enough that he might lose him completely to insanity? Obviously he did; what Sherlock had seen in John's eyes was genuine fear. Sherlock put his arms around his stomach as it throbbed painfully; he had done all of this….all of that he had done for the past three years to save John pain and suffering, not cause it. His stomach twisted painfully when he thought about the physical and mental pain his friend was going through at his expense.

Thinking about it all, combined with whatever hellish ordeal he had last night was making Sherlock extremely tired. He felt his eyelids drift further and further down until he allowed himself to be pulled to sleep by the movement of the car.

…

_Sherlock could hear John screaming but he couldn't find him. He ran through their flat, searching every room but not finding him. "Help! Help me Sherlock!" The sound of John's scared and startled voice chilled Sherlock to the bone; he searched everywhere but he couldn't find the source of the screaming. _

_Sherlock ran for the front door of the flat and threw it open, running out. But when he ran out the door he was not running onto the street but rather…._

_Falling….falling….falling _

_Off of the roof at St. Bart's; he was falling through the air, arms flailing, waiting for the pain he knew would come when he hit the ground. _

_Crash!_

_The pain was terrible as his whole body crashed into the pavement. He laid there for a while not wanting to move. He felt as though he _couldn't _move. But then he heard that screaming again. _

_John….._

_Sherlock managed to claw his way up, pushing his body up on shaky, trembling arms. He could see John lying in the middle of the street, not moving. By sheer will, Sherlock managed to stand on wobbly legs and stumbled to John. When he got to him he fell down on the pavement next to him, moving so that he could see John's face. But what he saw terrified him. John's face was pale, deathly. The only spot of color on it was the circle of red on his forehead where a sniper's bullet had gone in. _

_"John….no…." He whispered, pulling John's head to him, placing it in his lap. He touched the red spot as he stared into the unblinking, staring eyes of his friend. Sherlock felt the weight of the world come crashing down on him. John…._his _John was gone….forever. Because of him. _

_Sherlock put his face down on John's wishing for the touch of hot breath against his face but knowing that he wouldn't feel it. "oh God….why…..John….John…" he moaned as tears streamed from his face. _

_….._

John watched Sherlock sleep, becoming more and agitated. His face started out neutral but the longer that he slept, the more his forehead creased and small, whimpering sound began to issue from him. John was debating whether or not to disturb his sleep when the cab stopped outside the small cabin and the decision was made for him.

John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and gently began to shake him. "Sherlock….hey….wake up Sherlock" he said gently.

Sherlock jerked awake, putting his hands out almost as if to swat at him. He looked confused. "John?" he asked, his voice croaky.

"Yeah, Sherlock?" John asked. Sherlock seemed scared.

The fear in his eyes lasted a few moments before it passed. "Nothing, uh…..I'm fine" Sherlock said, straightening his clothes up as he sat up. He was pale, but quickly resumed a normal expression.

John collected his and Sherlock's luggage and stepped out of the cab after Sherlock. Sherlock was looking around the area, but not saying anything.

It was a truly beautiful area; green hills surrounded the small cabin that was a small dirt road's distance from the main road. There were no other houses or buildings anywhere near the small brick cabin, though a small village could be seen in the distance, close enough to walk to but not close enough to be a bother. It was would be quiet and calming here; exactly the opposite of what Sherlock would want but exactly what he needed.

"Pretty out here isn't it?" John asked pleasantly to stone-faced Sherlock. Sherlock turned around and glared at John.

"It looks like Baskerville out here" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, it was very pretty out there" John said, not surprised that Sherlock was being negative. Really, John counted himself lucky that he didn't have to make good on his threat to drag Sherlock here.

"Oh it was beautiful!" Sherlock said exaggeratedly, "The drugged fog, the huge vicious dogs….truly beautiful!" Sherlock huffed as he pushed his hands down in his pockets and made his way to the cabin.

…

Sherlock lay across the bed on his stomach, staring at the wall. The wooden wall; he signed. This place was primitive; just to prove the point Sherlock wiggled around on the uncomfortable, eye blindingly bright bedding. There were no computers here though Sherlock was annoyed to find that there was a very large telly in the sitting room. Honestly, what kind of place had a telly but no internet access? The whole place was made of wood with primitive patterns on all the furniture; Sherlock felt like he was going to turn into a lumberjack.

The second that they had entered the cabin, Sherlock had made a beeline for the nearest bedroom, claiming it as his, not even giving John the chance to pick; he'd made enough decisions today. He could hear John huff annoyed behind him but Sherlock didn't care. He had agreed to come here, but if John was hoping on some sweet sleep over where he spilled his guts then he was going to be disappointed.

Sherlock put the pillow over his head to try and muffle the sound of the telly in the sitting room where John was; but like everything else, the pillow felt rough and abrasive and Sherlock ended up chucking it across the room in disgust. He pulled his legs up to his chest as his stomach ached; his stomach had been such a constant pain now for days that Sherlock alsmost considered asking John what he could do to help it. But he didn't; John would probably try to get him to do something ridiculous like eat.

Sherlock had been woken from his latest nightmare so quickly in such a strange setting as the cab that he hadn't had time to process it; now it was coming back to him and demanding to be thought about. He didn't know what good it was going to do now; it hadn't been real. But just like everything else it had seemed very real at the time and had still shaken him enough to feel his heart racing and his breath catch in his chest.

Sherlock was staring at the wall when John came into the room. "Don't you knock anymore?" Sherlock asked in annoyance. "Do I need to lock the door every time that I go into a room?" Really, it was ridiculous; he hadn't even knocked. He needed space, privacy; John was creeping in on this more and more and he didn't care for it.

John ignored his remark. "Come on, we're going to the village to get some food" he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes; there was his obsession with food again. "I'm not hungry" he insisted.

"I know" John said, "But you need to eat. And you're not going to lie in here the whole time we are here"

"Why not?" Sherlock asked. "You forced me to come, you didn't force me to be happy about it" He craned his neck to look up at John.

Sherlock could sense John was trying to not get angry; slow, deep breaths, eyes closed. He was making himself stay composed. "Please, for me?" John asked. Sherlock sensed that he was tired.

Sherlock sighed deeply. "Fine".

…..

"Sherlock, just eat" John said in frustration, raising his voice but not enough to be heard by others in the restaurant.

"No….not hungry" Sherlock said lethargically.

John took a deep breath; barley hours into this holiday and Sherlock was already getting on his nerves. Sherlock had been silent the entire walk from the cabin down to town; he had refused to order anything upon arriving. John had taken it upon himself to order what he knew Sherlock was most likely to eat and now that it had arrived, Sherlock had pushed it out of his way and had his head lain down on the table like a bratty three year old. John was surprised he hadn't thrown a temper tantrum.

"You've not eaten in days….several days" John said. "You _are _eating something."

Sherlock folded his arms on the table and put his head on top , looking at John. "I said I'm not hungry…I'm not eating" he said through gritted teeth.

John gave Sherlock a hard look. "We are not leaving until you eat" he said with a serious tone. If Sherlock was not going to do anything to take care of himself, then John was going to have to do it.

"Stop treating me like a child!" Sherlock hissed at him across the table.

"I will when you stop acting like one" John seethed back, earning him a few glances from the people around him. He lowered his voice. "Stop being so difficult Sherlock. Just eat your damn dinner"

Sherlock gave John an icy look that could kill before he picked up his fork and began to eat his dinner agonizingly slow. He ate about 5 bites, and small bites at that, before he put his fork down.

"I don't think so" John said through his mouthful of food, pointing to Sherlock's fork. "You're not done"

Sherlock put his arms over his stomach. "But my stomach hurts" Sherlock whined.

"Of course it does" John said "you haven't eaten in at least week." He pointed to Sherlock's dinner again. Honestly, he _was _dealing with a child.

Sherlock sighed ridiculously loud before picking up his fork again.

John finished long before Sherlock since he was eating with gusto and Sherlock was picking at his food. Eventually though he ate about half of the food before putting his fork down. When John looked at him, Sherlock said, "Oh, I forgot to ask. May I please be done father?" he put his hands in a fake begging pose.

It was the first thing in a while that had made John want to laugh. John tossed his napkin at Sherlock. "Let's get out of here you git" he said with a smirk on his face.


	14. I need you John

The sun was coming down as Sherlock and John walked down the quiet road that led from the town to the cabin, making it colder and Sherlock pulled his coat around him tightly. His stomach was killing him and was beginning to resent John for making him eat all that food. He looked over at John who was walking beside him, looking ahead, but he could tell that John was watching him out of the corner of his own eye. He was going to speak; Sherlock could see John's mouth open hesitantly and close several times. He was trying to work up to saying something which could only mean it was something that he didn't want to say. Sherlock could make a pretty good guess that it had to do with why they were here.

"I'm sorry about all this, bringing you here and everything" John said finally.

Well, Sherlock had to admit that that was unexpected. He hadn't expected John to apologize, especially since this whole thing was his idea. "Why are you apologizing? This was all your idea….are you now regretting it?" Sherlock asked, looking over at John's feet but not up further, knowing that John was watching him.

"No, I'm not regretting it" John said quickly. "I still think that this is exactly what you need. You need to slow down, relax. Take a break from your cases. But, I know that's what you really love and your idea of a holiday is being at home working and not cooped up with me doing nothing. So, I guess I'm apologizing if this is miserable; I just am really worried and I don't know what else to do"

Sherlock felt his stomach twist around nervously like he always did when people, especially John, talked about feelings. He didn't understand them and yet he knew when people shared their feelings to someone, it was usually expected that the person return their thoughts. Sherlock wasn't sure that he could do that; he knew that he certainly didn't want to.

John took Sherlock's long pause and continued. "I really just wish you'd talk to me" he said, looking down at his feet, his face turning slightly red. He wasn't trying to look at Sherlock anymore. "I really wish you could trust me enough to tell me what's going on"

"I do trust you" Sherlock said quickly. He was confused as to how his lack of wanting to talk about his feelings had anything to do with trusting John.

John stopped, putting his hand on Sherlock's arm, forcing him to stop as well. "Then please talk me" John said, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock felt his unease rise considerably. His dinner was churning in his stomach and he cursed himself for eating. He didn't know where all this was coming from with John but was making him uncomfortable. He glanced up at John's face for a second, to see concern painted on it, before averting his eyes. What should he say? He had no idea…..he didn't want to tell John everything. What good could it possibly do? He had endured some terrible things while he was gone and telling John wouldn't help him, it would only horrify John. But Sherlock knew that he had to say something.

"I….cant" Sherlock finally managed to croak out. "Really, John. I can't. I regret that you feel it's so necessary for me to talk about it, but really…no good can come from it. I just want to forget everything that happened. Talking about it all will only bring it up and make it harder to forget."

John stared at him and Sherlock forced himself to look in John's direction even though it was making him uncomfortable. He expected John to push him; after all, that's what he had been doing all day. But he didn't. He let go of Sherlock's arm. "Okay" he said, much to Sherlock's surprise. "I really wish you would, because I think it could help. But….I'm not going to force you. At least try to take it easy while we are here?"

Sherlock forced his face to not betray his surprise. "I'll make no promises" he said, though when he looked at John he was smiling slightly.

By this point they had made their way back to the cabin, and Sherlock went in ahead of John. He went to his temporary room to get his pyjamas and dressing gown. He didn't relish the idea of sleeping, just as he hadn't since this whole ordeal had started. But just as it had been since it started, he was already tired. Not that he was going to sleep already, but he planned on relaxing and smoking, feeling his fingers shaking slightly.

Sherlock had just put his dressing gown on and was searching his luggage for his cigarettes when he heard a knock on his door. Hmm…..what he had said earlier must have had some effect on John.

"Come in" Sherlock said, still digging through his bag.

John poked his head in the room, already dressed down in his pyjamas as well. " I made some tea, if you want some" he said cheerily.

"That'd be good. I'll get some in a little bit" Sherlock said, still digging. Where were those damn cigarettes?

"Okay….good" he heard John said distantly. Sherlock expected that John would now leave, but he didn't. He didn't know how much time had passed when Sherlock noticed that he was still standing there, but Sherlock was sure that it had been a lot. He looked up to see John just standing there, staring at him, fiddling with the drawstring on his pyjama pants. He was nervous….why?

"Do you need something?" Sherlock asked hesitantly, looking up at John and giving up the search for the cigarettes. He was hoping that John hadn't so quickly forgotten about his decision to not ask about the events of his past.

"No" John said quickly "Uh….I just thought that you might want to watch some telly?" he looked at Sherlock, who was about to say no. "I know you don't like telly, but there is a documentarily on about different kinds of tobacco." He looked down and fiddled some more. What was his problem? "Thought you might want to watch it."

Sherlock was puzzled; that wasn't something that John would enjoy so why did he want to watch it? "I can't imagine you'd find it interesting" Sherlock said.

John waved his hand dismissively. "Sure I would" he said. Sherlock noted his lack of eye contact and his continued to need to fiddle with his clothing; he was lying. He wasn't going to find the program interesting and yet he wanted to watch it with Sherlock. He didn't understand it, but knew that it must have something to do with sentiment.

"Okay" Sherlock said, deciding to not think about it further and just enjoy John's sudden interest in telly that wasn't mind numbing.

…

John looked over at Sherlock in the glow of the telly, head tilted back against the back of the sofa as he slept. His curls fell across his forehead and his face, for once, was relaxed. John watched the rise and fall of his chest for a few moments before turning his eyes away, back to the telly. John had been both surprised and pleased that Sherlock had actually agreed to sit and watch telly with him; the program had been excruciatingly boring to John but it was nice to see Sherlock relaxing. About an hour into the program John had noticed Sherlock's eyes begin to droop and now he had finally lost the battle to sleep; it was just as well, John was tired as well. Last night had been a nightmare which had drained him; he was more than ready for sleep.

Once Sherlock had been asleep long enough that John was sure that he wouldn't wake up, John got up from the couch. He grabbed a blanket off the nearby recliner and placed it over Sherlock. John looked at Sherlock's peaceful face once more, hoping for a good night's sleep, before walking quietly to the bedroom to get some well-deserved sleep of his own.

…

_Sherlock was running as fast as his legs could take him but they were going to give out and he knew it. His muscles burned painfully and despite the adrenaline, they gave out and he tripped. His lack of availability of food and sleep in the past few months, along with whatever illness that was coursing through his body, making him feverish and dizzy, caused his legs to give out. He fell against the pavement, his head smacking into the concrete. He scrambled up as quickly as he could but he knew that his fall would put him very close to danger. _

_He got up, but rather than being able to run his legs barley would stumble along the sidewalk. Sherlock tried to go faster but they just wouldn't do it. He sucked the cold air into his lungs but he still couldn't manage to catch his breath. _

_He rounded the corner into an alley, hoping to be able to catch his breath. He saw a dumpster and dove behind it. He crouched in the darkness and held in the urge to cough that was tugging at his lugs; he had to be as quiet as he possibly could. He cursed himself for being so careless in his tracking that he had been caught. Under normal circumstances he would have been able to turn around and fight rather than flee. But in his current physical state, he knew that he couldn't win a fight with this foe. His fever raged, making him shiver uncontrollably, his head twisted around in a daze. His body ached all over and he was having a hard time even staying awake. The adrenaline was enough to get him going at first but now that it was over he felt like he was going to crash. _

_Sherlock heard the sound of footsteps in the alley and he pressed his hands over his mouth to stifle his labored breath. He watched under the dumpster as feet passed by. Sherlock was sure that the feet were passing…._

_Sherlock felt hands grab his coat and roughly pull him to his feet. The angry face of his attacker was inches from his as he jeered as him. "Well if it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes" he sneered. "You've done quite well at killing off a lot of my friends. Quite unfortunate for you that you didn't get to me too, because I plan on avenging them. And James." _

_The man was just as tall as Sherlock and weighed twice as much; Sherlock tried to fight against the hands that held him, but his own hands shook so much and were so weak that he was almost powerless. _

_The man punched Sherlock so roughly his head snapped back as he stumbled back and hit the wall. The man grabbed Sherlock's collar and held him tight as he shoved his knee hard into Sherlock's groin. Sherlock collapsed to the ground, holding his injured privates; he didn't even have time to process that pain fully before he felt a kick to the stomach. Pain shot through him as his stomach burned. Over, over and over again…..the kicks kept coming…..Sherlock was becoming insensible with pain with every kick. He couldn't see anymore and wished for unconsciousness that didn't come. He tasted blood in his mouth; soon he was vomiting blood onto the pavement. He looked up at his attacker, expecting another kick. Instead, he yanked him up by the collar again and said, " I'll finish you off, but not yet…..no, I think my friends would like to be able to have some fun with you" He laughed shrilly before kicking Sherlock in the groin again; he crumpled down as glorious unconsciousness came over him. _

_….._

Sherlock's eyes popped open and he was staring at the ceiling. "John? John?" he called out in the darkness but John was not there. He heard the sound of the telly but John was no longer sitting beside him. His heart was racing, no, pounding out of his chest….he couldn't catch his breath. He felt tears on his cheek ; the memory of the nightmare was enough to make an oppressive pressing feeling come to his chest and he felt like he might suffocate. Where was John? Why wasn't he here? He had always come when Sherlock had had a nightmare. Sherlock was still trying to catch his breath when he shifted and uncomfortably noticed the warm wet feeling he felt on his lap yet again. Heat flooded his face even though he was alone….terribly alone….as he pulled the blanket up to cover his face. His hands were shaking; he felt terrified. He knew the nightmare wasn't real now… but at a time it had been real. And the pain that he had felt then had come rushing back to him.

"John! John!" Sherlock called out. His voice cracked as his emotion came flooding through. Right now, he didn't care if John saw the tear stains on his cheek or the spot on his pants; he just couldn't stand to be alone. He wanted John…._needed _John.

"John! John….please awake up…." Sherlock's voice begged into the darkness of the cabin. But John didn't come; Sherlock buried his face into the blanket as the loneliness threatened to crush him. "John! John…..I need you…." His voice was barely more than a whisper and he knew that there was no way logically that John would be able to hear him.

Sherlock allowed himself to fall forward so that he was laying on the couch. He buried his face in the blanket and drifted off into a dreamless doze


	15. I cant hold it anymore

_**Trigger Warning: Self-Harm**_

A short time later Sherlock jerked awake. He felt suffocated by the blanket that he had buried his face into and he threw it off to the side. He was instantly aware of his wet and now cold pants and he knew he needed to get up and take care of it despite the fact that he just wanted to curl up and call for John again, even though he was sure that he wouldn't hear him again.

Sherlock got off the sofa and shuffled towards the bathroom uncomfortably. He was relieved when he had closed the door and he could take his clothes off. He got into the shower and quickly showered, feeling tired and drawn. He didn't want to spend any more time in the shower than he had to. He dried himself, eager to get warm, dry pyjamas on. Once he had gotten his pyjamas on, he went to the mirror to brush the tangles out of his hair. But when he looked into the mirror, he was so startled he screamed…..his heart skipped a beat and breath caught in his chest. Behind him he saw a man he only saw in his nightmares, but one that was staring at him in the mirror with the leering, evil smile. _Moriarty….._

Sherlock whipped around, arms up and ready to fight but when he turned around he was alone. Sherlock crumpled to the ground, a cry in stifled in his throat. He put his shaking hands to his wet hair closed his eyes, trying to unsee what he had seen in the mirror. The image of Moriarty's dark, evil face had seemed so real….the man that had caused his life complete havoc, the man who had forced him to be on the run for three years to protect the people he cared about….the man who had so completely destroyed his life. Who, even after all this time, was slowly beginning to unravel Sherlock's mind.

When Sherlock's breath had calmed a bit and his heart wasn't racing as much, he opened his eyes. But when he saw those dark brown eyes in front of his boring into his own, Sherlock fell back, panic rising in his chest. He closed his eyes against the ghost of his nemesis and scrambled up off the floor of the bathroom, running for the door. When he opened his eyes as he ran from the bathroom, he didn't see anything else that shouldn't be there, but panic was still rising in his chest, threatening to choke him and take over.

Sherlock ran for John's bedroom and he burst through the door. Through the light that spilled into the room from the sitting room Sherlock could see John stirring on the bed, waking from the abruptness of his entrance into the bedroom no doubt. John rolled around slowly, his eyes opening slightly. He squinted and lifted his head off the pillow as he noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway. "Sherlock? Are you okay?" he asked, showing concern in his face and tone despite the fact that he was barely awake.

Sherlock's mind screamed at him that he should keep his mask up. _You can't let John see, he will think you are weak, he will leave you….like everyone does…._The voice in his head was so loud, like it always was. But the panic, the crushing loneliness, the horrible fear was so deep and Sherlock was so tired of fighting it. Maybe John would think less of him at his weakness but Sherlock couldn't fight it anymore. He didn't want to.

As Sherlock's eyes stung, moisture filling them and beginning to spill over and down his face, he rushed at John, sliding onto the bed beside him, burying his face in John' shirt, hiding the tears that were now openly dripping from his eyes.

"What the….? " John asked in confusion as Sherlock threw himself at John. He stayed rigid for a few moments before slowly putting his arms around Sherlock in an embrace.

Sobs racked Sherlock's body and he grabbed John's shirt with both hands and pulled it into his face. He had kept from crying, forced his feelings so deeply inside him for so long that now that it was coming out, it was impossible to stop. Sherlock was scared and relived at how it came tumbling out of him; relived that he didn't have to hold it but scared that he would never able to stop.

Sherlock felt John's arms tighten around him, and felt John's hand begin to gently rub his back. For once, John didn't ask questions. In fact he didn't say anything. He just held Sherlock tight as he soaked John's shirt with tears. Sherlock had a nagging thought that he wanted to know what John was thinking, but for once he felt safe and he didn't want to ruin it by talking. For once, John was completely safe and he was completely safe; he hadn't felt that way in a long time. He cried until his body was sore and he couldn't produce anymore tears. He felt exhausted but so warm and safe that he didn't want to move. He was vaguely aware that he was drifting to sleep lying against John.

…

When John had awoken in the middle of the night he had been on alert. So many terrible things had been happening lately in the middle of the night and so his heart was beating and his eyes scanning the room immediately. It didn't take long for his eyes to fall on Sherlock standing in the doorway of the room. He looked like John had never seen him; his eyes were wide and terrified, barley retrained tears pooling in them. He was pale as a sheet and shaking. It was slightly like the look that he had had during his flashbacks, but John could tell that now he was definitely awake. He saw Sherlock's lip begin to quiver and John was stricken that he had never seen the detective look so much like a vulnerable child. If something had happened, as it obviously had, John had for once not woken up. He immediately felt terrible that Sherlock had been suffering in the dark night alone with whatever terrible images his mind had conjured up.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" he asked even though the answer was obviously no.

Sherlock stood in the door, apparently torn with speaking and holding it in. For a second John feared that Sherlock would run away and hide his emotions again. But this time, he didn't.

John was surprised when Sherlock rushed over and threw himself at him, quite literally. Sherlock jumped into the small space on the bed beside him and buried his face into his chest. The show of affection was so surprising that John was stunned for a second; it was quite awkward having Sherlock in his bed, and crying, no less. John was frozen in inaction, not knowing what to do. But then he looked down at Sherlock; his hands pulling at John, his whole body shaking with sobs. Sherlock had been so insistent since this thing had started that he needed to be left alone, not talking or acknowledging his feelings. Being strong….so if he was crying, and actually letting John see then it had to mean that he was done. His pain was too much to manage.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and pulled him close; at first, the contact was awkward and unnatural. But as John felt Sherlock's body conform against him in a desperate plea for contact and affection, one so unlike him, he relaxed himself. He couldn't do much, so he rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly. John was pretty sure that Sherlock would not appreciate questions and John didn't want to scare him away. So, he remained silent, hoping that Sherlock would speak when he was ready.

Sherlock cried for a long time but he never did speak. At times the most pitiful cries would issue from Sherlock and John desperately wanted to ask him what had happened, but he resisted. After a long time, Sherlock had calmed down and relaxed against him. Eventually, John heard Sherlock's breath even out as he fell asleep, though his grip on John's shirt never did slacken. Not wanting to disturb Sherlock, John laid he head down on the pillow and seeked sleep, Sherlock still pressed up against him.

…

When John awoke the next morning, he was surprised to see Sherlock still asleep. At some point during the night Sherlock had rolled over on his other side and was facing away from john. John was slightly glad for this; it made it a little less awkward to wake up next to him this way. John leaned over Sherlock; he appeared to be deep in sleep still, his face calm. John lay back on the bed for a few minutes, allowing himself to wake up a little more. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes; he was relieved that the rest of the night had not brought anymore nightmares for Sherlock. John fully intended to sit Sherlock down and have a talk with him about what had happened last night but not right at first. Maybe he could convince him to relax on the couch some more and watch telly or take a walk and then talk about it. He didn't want to scare him off but he needed to talk about it.

Once his head felt a little clearer, John got off the bed, careful to leave Sherlock sleeping. John walked into the kitchen and started a pot of tea. Once he'd made the tea he sat at the table and sipped it leisurely while he read the paper, giving Sherlock time to sleep. By the time that he had finished his tea and read most of what was of interest in the paper, John heard slight noises coming from the bedroom, signaling that Sherlock was awake. John felt his stomach growl in protest and knew that breakfast was needed. John flipped through a phone book that he found in the kitchen and found a nearby restaurant that delivered. Figuring him and Sherlock needed a quiet morning, John decided to call and order breakfast for delivery. John knew that Sherlock wouldn't want to eat but he was going to insist.

John walked back to the bedroom, pulling the door open as he said, "Sherlock, I'm going to order some take away. What do….what the…..?"

"I'm sorry…..John….you weren't supposed to see" Sherlock said in a shaky breath.

All of the air was pulled from his lungs as he stepped into the room and saw Sherlock on the floor by the bed. He was leaned up against the bed, both his arms exposed, deep cuts on both arms. Sherlock's face was deathly pale and his hands shook, a small knife clattered to the floor as he looked up at John. There was blood running freely down Sherlock's arm, dripping on his pyjamas and on the floor. So much blood…

"Oh my God, Sherlock" John said. He was momentarily stunned. He didn't know what else to say or do. He felt his own hands start to shake.

What happened next was even worse. Sherlock looked up at John, his lip beginning to quiver. His eyes were filled with tears and he seemed confused. "I don't know…..how it happened…it wasn't here a second ago…..I'm sorry John….so sorry"


	16. I Hurt Myself

_Trigger Warning: Self- Harm_

John felt tears pulling at his eyes but he maintained his composure. The last thing that Sherlock needed was for him to lose it at this moment. It was breaking John to see Sherlock not only harming himself in such as way but to be apologizing to John for it. As if had done something wrong. John bit down his sorrow and shock and maintained the straight face and even tone that Sherlock needed. "Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not mad" John said calmly as he kneeled down on the floor in front of Sherlock. He took the knife away from Sherlock. He looked down at the cuts that crossed Sherlock's arms and struggled to stay composed.

"I didn't mean to…." Sherlock said distantly. "I knew you'd be mad….."

John was disturbed by the voice that Sherlock spoke in; so distracted, so distant. He seemed fragile, like he might break. " Sherlock, listen….I'm not mad. Not at all. Here, I want to get you patched up. Let's go to the bathroom, okay?"

Sherlock looked at him distracted but he eventually nodded. John stood and Sherlock followed suit, following him out of the bedroom. A million questions crossed John's mind but he put them in the back of his mind; he needed to patch Sherlock's body up before he could get to his mind.

"Sit down" John gestured to the closed toilet and Sherlock sat down. John looked in the bathroom cabinet and was glad to see a small first aid kit. He placed it on the counter and turned toward Sherlock. John began to pull on the hem of Sherlock's shirt but he put his arms down in a defensive move.

"Sherlock, you have to let me get this off of you" John insisted. It was covered in blood and honestly John wanted to check Sherlock for more cuts. This was obviously not a brand new habit.

Sherlock's eyes darkened with worry but he moved his arms so that John could pull the t-shirt over his head. Sherlock's pale chest was a contrast to the deep red that was snaking across his arms as the cuts bled. John watched in alarm as Sherlock stared down at the blood with a blank look on his face. It didn't seem to alarm him at all and he seemed to look at it almost as if it was someone else's. John tore his eyes away from the sight as he pulled the gauze out of the first aid kit.

Sherlock had two cuts on each arm and John cleaned the blood off as he inspected the wounds. Deep enough to cause bleeding, but not deep enough to scar; Sherlock had done this before, possibly several times. John cleaned the blood off and disinfected the cuts before wrapping gauze tightly around the wounds. John had thought that, and maybe even hoped that, Sherlock would wince in pain when he touched the wounds. But he didn't; he just kept staring at them almost as if in a trance. Just the fact that Sherlock even let him doctor his wounds was enough to set off alarm bells.

As John was tying off the last of the gauze, he glanced up at Sherlock's exposed skin, searching for scars. He didn't want to make it obvious, but he knew that he needed to know if there were more; if asked, Sherlock would most likely lie. John glanced over Sherlock' chest and saw the three large scars he had first observed right after Sherlock had returned. He still didn't know how Sherlock had gotten them, but at the moment that wasn't his primary concern. John moved his eyes away from Sherlock's chest to his arms. Each arm had a few faint scars far up on his arm where they would have been concealed even under short sleeves, if ever he wore any

"Good as new" John said in a positive voice that he didn't feel. He put the supplies away and said, "I'm going to get us some tea; you go get a clean shirt and come to the kitchen" they were going to talk this through now whether he wanted to or not.

John was relieved to see that now that Sherlock was staring at his bandages he seemed to be less out of it. He had more light in his eyes and his pale face was gaining a little color; John thought he might be slightly embarrassed now. "Okay" he said dully.

John went to the kitchen and warmed up the tea that he had made earlier that morning. Sherlock walked lazily into the kitchen and sat down heavily at the kitchen table as John poured some tea into two tea cups. John set a cup in front of Sherlock as he sat down across from him; John couldn't help but notice that Sherlock had chosen a long sleeve t-shirt to put on now instead of a short one.

John gave Sherlock a few minutes, sipping his tea slowly before he spoke. "How long?" John asked even though he didn't want to. The question hung in the quiet of the kitchen, the silence excruciating. "How long what?" Sherlock asked, staring into his tea cup.

"You know what" John said simply, looking at Sherlock even though Sherlock wouldn't look at him.

Sherlock didn't answer; he rubbed the injured part of his left arm with his right, staring off towards the floor but not at John. John could tell he wasn't going to speak so he stepped in. "I know that's not the first time that you did that" John said. "You had other scars. I'm not upset, and I'm not mad. I'm just concerned….so please tell me"

Sherlock took a sip of his tea and then stared toward John's cup as he spoke. " I don't do it….hardly ever" Sherlock said. "I went years without doing it" Sherlock put his hand to his eyes and rubbed in frustration. It was obvious that Sherlock was embarrassed and ashamed of it.

"Its okay" John said cautiously. "Can I ask why you started again?" John knew what the answer would be but he still wanted to hear Sherlock say it.

Sherlock continued to rub at his arms. "Do we have to do this, John?" he asked in a slightly whiny tone. While John was glad that he seemed to be acting more like himself, there was no way in hell that he was going to let Sherlock wiggle out of talking this time.

"Yes, we have to do this" John said firmly but not in anger. "Aside from everything else that's happened you came to my bed last night in tears and I didn't ask a single question, but now it is time"

John hadn't really meant to phrase it that way but when he saw the pink flush on Sherlock's cheeks he felt it on his own as well. He averted his eyes. "Sorry….what I meant was…." John started but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, it's okay…..you do deserve to have an answer I suppose" Sherlock said. He took a deep breath as if it was difficult to speak. "It's just not….easy for me….."

John looked at Sherlock who was staring down at the table not looking at him. Sherlock put his hand on his eyes again, pressing hard into his eyes as if he was trying to unsee something. " I saw Him last night" Sherlock said quietly after a while. Sherlock said "him" as if should have a capitol H, and in doing so he ensured that John knew exactly who he was talking about.

"What do you mean?" John asked gently.

Sherlock kept his eyes covered. "I had a nightmare last night. I had to….." he turned beet red and it wasn't hard for John to read between the lines. "I took a shower and when I got out of the shower, I saw Him. As clear as if He was right there…..I know He wasn't really there. But it was so real…..That's when I…..came to you"

Sherlock hung his head as if the admission had drained him and John was sure that it had. Sherlock never shared his feelings. To do so was hard on him.

"Was that first time that you saw him?" John asked, "The first time you've seen something that wasn't there. While you were awake?"

Sherlock uncovered his eyes and nodded. " Everything was else while I was asleep or….in a daze."

"No doubt it frightened you" John said. "Seeing things is scary" He didn't know what to say. He knew getting Sherlock to admit he was _afraid _was going to be a stretch. "Is that why you…." He looked at Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock's face turned red and he wouldn't look at John. "I wasn't afraid!" he said with angry defense. John was sure that this indicated that he was in fact very afraid, but John deiced to just validate what he was saying. "Okay, you weren't afraid" John said. "Then, why did you do it?"

Sherlock folded his arms and scowled at John. "You wouldn't understand" he said defensively.

"I'm sure that I won't understand completely, because I've never been in that situation but if you explain it to me I will understand a lot more." John said patiently.

Sherlock rubbed his arms absently. "It gets too hard….to hold it in" he said, his eyes wide as if he was seeing something scary. "Too many thoughts, too many emotions…I have to make it end and that's the only way to do it"

John felt pain at hearing those words. He wondered how many times Sherlock had hurt himself in an effort to keep emotional pain at bay. He forced himself to keep his face a mask of no emotion. "You don't have to hold it in" John said quietly.

"Yes I do" Sherlock said, staring down at his arms, running his fingers over the places John knew there were scars at. John was sure that Sherlock was unaware that he was doing it.

John wanted to scream; he just wanted Sherlock to give in, tell him what was going on. Let him in, stop holding the pain in. But he knew he couldn't push or Sherlock would close down, maybe forever. "Why do you have to hold it in?" John asked as calmly as he could. He just hoped that Sherlock would tell him; his body couldn't afford for him to hold it in anymore.


	17. You Kept Me Alive

**FEELS ahead! :)**

John watched as Sherlock's face grew redder and redder. For a moment, John thought he was going to burst into tears. But then he saw lines of anger cross Sherlock's face. Sherlock scowled in anger before slamming his fists onto the table, so hard that the tea cups shook. "Why do you have to be such an idiot?" Sherlock snarled at John.

John was taken aback; this was hardly the response that he was expecting. "An idiot?" he asked. "What makes me an idiot?" he remained calm, having absolutely no idea where this was coming from.

Sherlock hit the table again, his face red with malice. "You don't see anything! You don't pay attention….you think you know everything and yet you perceive so little about everything around you!" he barked at him.

John was so confused; he wasn't sure how any of this had anything to do with what they had been talking about. "I pay attention" John said weakly.

"No you don't!" Sherlock said. "You go around for weeks asking me to open up about my feelings, talk, talk ,talk….that's what you want but you don't see how stupid that request is!"

John was a little relieved to at least know where they were going with this train of thought now. "Why is my request to ask you to talk stupid?" John asked.

Sherlock hit the table again, so hard this time that the tea cups spilled over, dumping their contents on the table. Sherlock stood up, turning away from John, pulling at his hair as he stared at the wall. "You still don't get it! I _cant ever _fucking talk about it!" Sherlock practically howled at John.

"Why not?" John asked, his voice several octaves higher; he didn't want to argue with Sherlock but he had absolutely no idea why Sherlock was calling him stupid.

"Because you'll leave!" Sherlock said. "You'll leave like everyone does!"

John felt like a weight had fallen on top of him; did Sherlock really think that he was going to leave if he told him how he felt about his flashbacks?

"Sherlock, I'm not going anywhere" John said calmly.

Sherlock stayed facing the wall. "You say that now but that's always what people say! They want brilliant, genius Sherlock…..the only reason to put up with him is that he's brilliant….the second that he isn't, then they are gone….that's all I'm good for. If I don't have that….I don't have anything. Then people leave….you'll leave."

Sherlock's voice had started off as a shout but had grown quieter as he spoke. By the time he finished he was quiet and sad. "Sherlock….is that what you really think? That I stick around because I think you're smart and invincible?" John asked.

"I know it is" Sherlock said softly. "Its not like you do it for my winning personality."

John didn't know how to explain to Sherlock how wrong he was; he wasn't an easy person to live with….but John wouldn't have life any other way. How could he explain, and get Sherlock to believe, that his life was better, he was better with him in it.

"Sherlock, I stay around because I care about you….you're my friend" John said.

"There's no way you could possibly want me around like this" Sherlock said, his arms outstretched. It was obvious what he meant; the mere thought of it brought tears stinging to John's eyes.

"Sherlock, you keep saying that but you haven't let me have a chance to even try" John said. "How can you know how I'll react to your feelings if you don't let me know what they are?"

"Oh because I was so sensitive to your feelings?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"What do you mean?" John knew Sherlock wasn't _ever _particularly sensitive to anyone's feelings but he had a feeling Sherlock was referencing something particular.

"When you wanted to talk about it….I wouldn't listen!" Sherlock said almost in frustration.

"What?" John asked.

"When I came back John!" Sherlock yelled. "you wanted to discuss how it made you feel and I belittled you….ignored you….made you jump in front of car and have a coma and almost die! Why would you want to listen to _my _feelings?"

John was surprised; he had thought that Sherlock was over the guilt of his accident. John knew that it in the beginning that Sherlock had blamed himself for causing it but John thought those feelings were long gone. Obviously they were not. "Sherlock, you know that it wasn't your fault….we've discussed this before. The accident….was just an accident, you had nothing to do with it"

"You just kept nagging me" Sherlock went on as if John hadn't spoken "Constantly to talk about it and I couldn't! I just couldn't!" John was horrified to see that now Sherlock's shoulders shook; he was crying. Actually, really crying….in daylight where John could see it. "I couldn't talk to you…..how was I supposed to talk about? The people who chased me? Always having one eye open? The people who wanted to kill me? The people I killed….." Sherlock's whole body was racked with sobs "How could I tell you literally the only thing that kept me alive while I was being tortured was thinking about you?"

John stared, open mouthed for what felt like forever; in twenty seconds he'd told John more about his missing three years than the entire 6 months he'd been back. Sherlock had been hunted and been in danger that whole time….he'd killed people. He'd been tortured. He'd suffered so much and he'd held it all inside all this time; it was no wonder he was breaking.

John watched as Sherlock continued to sob; he couldn't believe that Sherlock actually had admitted all of that. He'd actually missed John all that time; John believed that he did but he couldn't be sure. Not til now.

"I wish you had" John said, his voice small and strained with emotion. "I wish you had told me, Sherlock. I meant what I said…..I'm here because I'm your friend and I only nagged you about this because I could tell you were hurting and I wanted to make it end. Because I care about you….." John felt tears pooling in his eyes and he allowed them to fall onto his face. If Sherlock was crying, he might as well. "I wish you'd told me all that….I wish I knew that you had missed me; I missed you every single day you were gone….mourned you. When you came back I thought you didn't care….that you hadn't missed me and that was harder to accept than anything else."

Sherlock was digging at his arms where the bandages were. John was afraid he might cause them to bleed again. John got up from the table and went to Sherlock. He grabbed at Sherlock's arms, trying to pry himself away from the injuries. Sherlock pulled his arms away from John angrily, digging at his wounds until John could see blood on his shirt sleeve. "Sherlock ,stop" John urged through his own tears. "Stop that….you're hurting yourself…please stop "

John's words actually seemed to make Sherlock snap out of it. Sherlock looked down at his arms and then to John; he'd almost stopped crying but when he looked at John crying, he broke down again. When Sherlock burst into tears again John didn't know what else to do; he reached out and put his arms around Sherlock, capturing him in hug. He wasn't sure how Sherlock would react; he hoped he didn't make it worse. He was relieved when Sherlock melted against him and put his own arms around him.

"I'm sorry….."Sherlock said though sobs. "I'm so sorry about….all of this…."

"You don't have anything to be sorry about" John said , choking down his own tears. "We're okay….You're going to be okay"


	18. Safe Place

John pulled the soaked bandaged away from Sherlock's wounds, holding a grimace as he saw the reopened wounds again. He was slightly relieved to see that Sherlock grimaced as well; he wasn't staring into space this time. He was also relieved, and surprised that Sherlock was allowing him to attend to his wounds again.

After they had stopped crying, both looking slightly embarrassed about it, John had asked Sherlock to let him put new bandages on his arms. He was surprised when Sherlock let out a strained "Okay"

John cleaned the cuts off as gently as he could, watching Sherlock's face redden with pain as he tried not to cry out. As John began to wrap the gauze around his arm again, Sherlock said, "Since I was 13…."

His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. John had to strain to hear it. "What?" he said.

Sherlock looked at the floor. "Earlier you asked me…..how long…..I started when I was 13" he said quietly.

John was stunned for a moment; he'd been floored that Sherlock had actually share his _feelings _about the events that followed his jump. But now he was actually sharing something else? John felt a little hope inside him that maybe Sherlock was coming to the realization that he was safe to talk to him.

John didn't know what to say so he was glad when Sherlock went on. "I didn't know what I was doing, it just sort of…..happened the first time. But it helped…..so I kept doing it. Mycroft found me once when he was on holiday from uni and he was not happy. I told him I stopped, but I really just got good at hiding it. I made sure I didn't leave scars after that…..I didn't really stop until I went to uni…..but of course then I found a worse alternative to calm me down"

John finished up the bandages, not sure what to say to Sherlock. It was probably the most that he'd told him about his past the entire time that they 'd known each other and John knew that it wasn't easy for him to say it. John found himself looking at the floor also. "So, you started again because…..?" he asked.

"Again….I didn't really mean to…..just kind of happened. I needed release, I needed to get past the thoughts in my head and I couldn't do that on my own….I…..didn't want to go back to the drugs" Sherlock's voice was horse from the emotion combined with the screaming and crying. He looked down to his bandaged arms "I don't want to do this either. How did you make it stop, John?"

"The flashbacks, you mean?" John asked. Sherlock nodded and John sighed. A lot of it actually had to do with just being around Sherlock. Until the time he'd found him, he was drowning in nightmares and flashbacks. Nothing had helped, but when he met Sherlock it all kind of fizzled out. "I talked about it a lot" John said. "To my psychiatrist. But you know, you could just talk to me. It really does help to talk about it…..but honestly….." John paused, taking a deep breath. "Really, what helped me the most was working with you. I was….not doing so good….and then I met you. Working with you….being flat mates" John felt his face redden . "It helped me a lot….so….if you need me…..for anything really…..just tell me"

There was an uncomfortable silence that passed between them but finally Sherlock said, "Okay….okay…..thanks John".

It was such little that he said but John could read in his tone that he actually _did _appreciate it. He could understand what John meant by it and he appreciated it.

"You helped me…that's what friends do" John said, feeling his own voice crack.

…

"So….you're telling me he doesn't die? He just turns into a new body?" Sherlock asked in disbelief, sipping on his drink.

"Well, yeah kinda…..its called regeneration." John explained.

"That's illogical" Sherlock said.

"Of course its illogical; this whole show is about time traveling through space in a police box….you think people watch it to be logical?"

" Ordinary people….." Sherlock sighed as he finished off his drink with a slight smile.

John sat back and smiled. It had been a long day but John was so relieved that it had happened finally, that they had finally had a discussion about what had happened. John knew that it would take a while for Sherlock to heal and he didn't even know half of what Sherlock had actually gone through; he didn't even know if he would come to know everything or if he even wanted to know. But he and Sherlock had begun to forge some trust and for John that was enough for now. After they had patched Sherlock's wounds up they had went back to town and had lunch in another pub since the hour was so late after their discussion that morning. They'd taken a long leisurely walk back to the cabin and though they hadn't talked much, it was a comfortable silence. The air of stress and uncomfortableness that had been between them had finally subsided. When they had gotten back to the cabin John had jokingly suggested that they watch crap telly and get a little tipsy, he was surprised that Sherlock had agreed. He looked over at Sherlock now, who actually seemed to be at peace for the first time in a long time. It was almost like they were just two mates having a relaxing night in.

"Oh, what about us ordinary people?" John asked in jest as he finished off his drink.

"This is why you never get anywhere" Sherlock said as he gestured to the telly. "This is how you spend your time, what you fill your heads with. A bunch of rubbish."

"Maybe you're turning into an ordinary person" John said, giving him a side ways smile. "you're still here right?"

Sherlock huffed. "Don't count on it" he said with his own crooked smile.

Sherlock and John stared mindlessly at the telly for the next hour and John saw Sherlock become drowsier and drowsier. He slumped over at some point so that he was leaning somewhat on John's arm. He was peaceful and calm and John decided to leave him; it wasn't the most awkward position they'd ever been in and it wasn't worth being less awkward to move him. He watched Sherlock's calm face; maybe Sherlock would actually be okay.

John found himself getting drowsy and was almost asleep when he heard Sherlock's voice quietly. "John…."

John opened his eyes and turned toward Sherlock. "Yes?" he asked quietly.

"Thanks" Sherlock said even quieter.

John looked down but Sherlock's eyes were closed. "What for?" John asked.

"Staying" Sherlock said, so quiet that John could barely hear him.

John smiled. "You couldn't scare me away if you tried" he said with a small laugh. He was glad to see the corners of Sherlock's lips turn up slightly.


	19. Friends Protect People

Sherlock woke the next morning; his eyes opened and he found himself still lying on the couch. He was stiff all over and he looked over beside him and found John slumped over the arm of the couch. Sherlock sat up and straightened his muscles; other than being slightly stiff he felt remarkably good. He realized in surprise that it was the first night since his flashbacks began that he had not had a nightmare or vision. He sat up and leaned against the couch, watching John sleep. Maybe John had been right about talking about all this…

He still felt….uncomfortable about yesterday. He had completely lost his ability to control his emotions. He hadn't even remembered the thought process that had gone into him being so distraught that he had cut himself so severely; he was more careful than that now. It was like his mind had totally blacked out. He remembered John finding him, vaguely, but his memory didn't really become clear until John had been fixing his wounds. Then he was aware of what was going on and he was horrified that he had been found in such a state. He had never wanted John to find him like that; he had never wanted John to know how undone he really was. The words, the confessions had come barreling out of his mouth before he could stop them. Before he knew it, he was a sobbing mess. He was sure that John would be disgusted by him.

Only he wasn't.

John not only wasn't disgusted by his behavior, he had hugged him. He had cried as well. It wasn't at all what Sherlock had expected. Maybe he should have; he knew that John wasn't like everyone else, but he still thought John's tolerance of him only went so deep. Yesterday he came to the realization that he was…..wrong.

People didn't stick around in his life; no one ever had. He'd been tolerated by very few people and the ones that did tolerate him, well, that only went so far. It was true what he'd told John; people tolerated him for his genius abilities. Most people only wanted him for that; when they realized that he was damaged, or not perfect…..that was it.

But John…..John wasn't like that. He looked over at his sleeping flat mate, his calm face as he slept, even breathing pattern. John wasn't like anyone else that he'd ever met. Sherlock had known that from the time that he'd met him. He wasn't sure what it was that made him different, but Sherlock knew from that first day, when John had seemed so amazed by his abilities, when he'd followed him to the crime scene without a question, when he'd shot the cabbie for him a mere day after meeting him, he knew he was different. Sherlock had just assumed that John was a unique kind of person; he hadn't ever really allowed himself to believe that it was because of him. That John did all of those things for him. But he did….because he _cared. _Because they were actually _friends. _The realization was a lot of for Sherlock; no one had really ever cared about him, not in the way that John did. He hadn't realized it at the time, but it must have been what kept him going while he was gone all those years. No other person would have mattered enough to keep him going. He looked at John again, so peaceful and looking much younger in his sleep. Sherlock had thought for a long time that he had saved John's life but really John had saved his life…several times now.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over the bandages that covered his cuts and thought about what had happened yesterday. John had seen the real him, all of him; the crazy, uncontrolled and even scary parts and he was still here. Even when he admitted seeing things, even when he had been bleeding everywhere, even when he had admitted that he had killed people in his desire to get rid of Moriarty's men. Sherlock slammed his eyes shut; even the mere thought of that sent a wave of an undesirable emotion-fear?- though his body. But John was there…..right beside him. He was well, Sherlock was okay…..Sherlock took in deep breaths as he thought about this. He was able to calm himself down at those thoughts. John had said that he would be okay…..maybe, just maybe he was right.

…

"Are you sure that you want to do this Sherlock? Because we can go back…I'm not sure this is the best idea" John said as he and Sherlock paused at the door at the top of the steps.

Sherlock took a few deep breaths…._one….two…..three…._"Yes, I'm sure. I'm ready." He said with confidence. John gave Sherlock a small smile before opening the door. Light spilled in the doorway as he and John walked out onto the roof.

Sherlock took a few steps out the door and paused. The day was sunny and bright, unlike the last time he was on this roof. He felt a slight sense of fear in him but it was nothing like the last time. Sherlock squinted against the sun and looked around; it was just a roof, nothing more. And yet…..it felt like more.

It had been two months since Sherlock and John had returned from their holiday. It had not been an easy two months but Sherlock was finally beginning to feel better. It was hard for Sherlock, not being able to work, but he knew that he hadn't been ready for it yet; it was even harder to accept that. Sherlock still had occasional flashbacks but they were getting less and less. The nightmares seemed to be harder to shake. When they had been on holiday the nightmares had dissipated mostly; Sherlock refused to admit that it was linked with the fact that most nights he and John fell asleep together on the couch watching telly. When he had come back home to his own bed by himself, the nightmares had come back with a vengeance. More nights than not Sherlock would wake up in the middle of the night to John beside his bed trying to reassure him. This too had lessened over time but it was still a big issue. He tried to take comfort in the fact that John insisted that these would lessen until they were only an occasional issue. Though he was dismayed when John shared that his nightmares of the war still occasionally came back to him after nearly five years out of the service.

Sherlock wasn't really sure why he'd brought himself here, to this roof. It wasn't like him seeing this roof would magically make all his problems go away; in fact it might not do anything. It might even bring on a flash back. But if there was any chance at all that it might help him some, Sherlock wanted to try it. But really it was curiosity that brought him here. So many times that he had dreamed about, thought about, relived that day in his head and he just had to see this place for himself one more time. To remind himself that this roof was just a roof; it was not in and of itself the hell that it had brought to his life. It was just a place, just a place that couldn't hurt him.

Sherlock walked slowly towards the edge of the roof; he looked down at the street, so normal, with cabs driving by and people walking about. With a second's hesitation Sherlock stepped up onto the edge, the same edge he had stood on over three years ago. He could feel John hovering behind him, watching cautiously, afraid no doubt that Sherlock would do something stupid like jump. But he didn't say anything; maybe he knew deep down that Sherlock would never dream of doing something that stupid after all the struggle to get through the past three years.

Sherlock stood on the edge for a long time, staring from the spot directly below, where he fallen, and the spot across the street where he'd seen John for the last time. He felt a pull of emotion at his chest and for a second feared he might go into another flashback; he breathed in and out deeply for a few moments, the feeling passing. He could sense John's worried eyes behind him. "That was the hardest thing I ever did" Sherlock said.

"What? What was?" John asked from behind him.

Sherlock didn't turn around to face John, he kept looking at the spot of pavement that John had stood on. "Saying goodbye….trying to make you believe those lies" Sherlock admitted. "After everything else…..that was still the hardest part"

There was a long pause before John spoke. "Watching you jump….made me want to follow you" he said, his voice strained. "I never for once believed what you said about Moriarty. You were too real….all of what we did was too real for me to believe that it had been fake. It was so….painful watching you jump. Believing that you really had died, that I had seen the exact moment your life had ended. It was much worse than if I had seen you die by a bullet or something like that. Because it wasn't an accident….it wasn't for a purpose. I really believed that you chose to die, that nothing in this world could convince you stay…..including me"

Sherlock stepped off the ledge and turned toward John. "I had to make you hurt" he said, as hard as it had been to do. "If you had any idea that it was fake…..I knew you'd search for me until you found me. You have no idea how dangerous it was…..even with me dead, or supposedly dead…..you were still in danger"

John looked puzzled. "Really?" he said. "I never…..even knew."

That had been the point; Sherlock had never wanted John to know he had come close to death. Somehow, through it all, he had succeeded. "Right after it happened, one of Moriarty's loyal men was determined to kill you because I had killed him. He was so close" Sherlock could see the memory in his mind, so clearly. He felt the walls try to close up on him but Sherlock did what he been practicing the past few months. He breathed in and out, focusing on John, keeping his eyes on John to stay in the present. Sherlock felt a burst of triumph when it worked. "He was at our flat" Sherlock said finally.

John looked alarmed. "uh….really?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I was there…..I followed him." Sherlock looked down at the ground. "I've killed people John…..lots of people. What they've always said about me was right. I am a psychopath. I'm no different than he was" It was hard for Sherlock to say the words, to admit them. John was the last person he wanted to think less of him, or worse, be scared of him. But it was the cold, honest truth.

"Of course you're different than he was" John said strongly. "You are nothing like him. If you had to kill someone it was out of self-defense. Protecting yourself…..protecting me. And you feel remorse about it which no psychopath would do. Sherlock….the situation you were in could be handled no other way….other than running for the rest of your life."

Sherlock went to sit on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city. Maybe John had a point; Sherlock had never considered that he felt guilt over what he had done, but now feeling a burden begin to lift from him, he wondered if he had. A moment later John sat down beside him. There was a comfortable silence between them for a few minutes before John said, "I'm thankful you know"

Sherlock looked at him. "What for?" he asked. He didn't think he'd done anything worthy of thanks. Quite the opposite in fact.

"Saving my life" John said. "you sacrificed three years of your life to save me. Went through hell….for me. Thanks."

Sherlock thought about it; John said it like he'd had a choice. Really all along there had never been a choice. John was….special….to him. Sherlock had never been able to say that. He looked at John and gave him a small smile.

"How come you did it?" John asked. "Wouldn't it have been easier to not have?"

Sherlock wanted to laugh at how wrong that assumption was. Things would not have been easier if John had been killed and he hadn't jumped. The only things that mattered to him would have all been taken away. He would have ended up jumping of his own accord.

"No…..it would not have been easier" Sherlock said. He looked at John, his small smile growing larger. "Besides…..someone really smart told me once that that's what friends do. Friends protect people"

John laughed. "And someone even smarter said alone protects people" he said.

Sherlock couldn't help but give a small chuckle. "Someone smart was wrong…..alone doesn't protect anyone" he said with surety.

_The End _

**_Well, that the end of "I'm Coming Undone". Thanks so much to all of you who followed, Favorited and reviewed. You made this my most popular story so far! I appreciate you all. If you haven't already, check out my other two current stories, "Demons Visit Me at Night" and "Would You Come and Play with Me?" _**


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